


Forever is the Sweetest Con

by anignoranthistorian



Category: Anne with an E (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, Cowboy Like Me, Evermore - Freeform, Historical, Shirbert
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-17
Updated: 2020-12-30
Packaged: 2021-03-10 21:00:38
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 36,320
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28123494
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anignoranthistorian/pseuds/anignoranthistorian
Summary: Gilbert Blythe is fortunate to have secured a scholarship to attend the University of Toronto. He knows this, but he cannot always bring himself to reveal to his benefactress, a silly old woman with a fondness for very young men, all that he is. He lies, sometimes with cause, sometimes without.While being flaunted about at a New Year's Eve party, Gilbert meets a beautiful red haired woman who calls herself Sybil Lefroy. He soon learns that the girl has entangled herself in a web of stories and lies, perhaps too tightly woven to untangle, as a means of earning a living. Immediately intrigued by her, he is pulled into the web himself as he tries to help free her.How can you love when nothing is true?AU, Anne was sent back by the Cuthberts to the asylum.Inspired by Cowboy Like Me from Taylor Swift's evermore.
Relationships: Gilbert Blythe/Anne Shirley
Comments: 64
Kudos: 122





	1. Chapter 1

Mrs. William T. Graham was born in Philadelphia in 1840, the daughter of the governor of Delaware and the owner of several coal mines in Virginia and Pennsylvania. As Miss Cicely Taylor she looked rather like a glass doll, with golden hair and wide blue eyes and delicate features. She had been indescribably silly. 

There had been many beaus-- an impossible number of beaus, really. In Wilmington and Washington and Philadelphia, and back in Boston with her mother’s people, young men fell at her feet, one after another.

They fell at her feet until they began to fall dead on the battlefields of Virginia, Confederate bullets piercing their lungs and brains and spirits. 

These fellows wrote to her, though, from their dreadful camps where they fell sick and died, their insides cramping and churning. Through their agony they told her she was beautiful, begged for a photo to keep in their left breast pocket, and hinted at the question they would all ask her once this horrible war was over.

She had a stack of photographs that she sent out when called on to do so and sweet words for each boy who exerted himself to make a declaration, unthinking, uncaring, unaware that anything would need to be done at war’s end when these men called in their debts, each expecting her hand in marriage. 

All of this, of course, while her father’s mines were in turmoil-- the majority deep behind enemy lines and laying dormant for the duration of the war. Thankfully, this is a matter easily resolved when one has a lovely daughter to trade for capital. 

A Canadian, Mr. William T. Graham was 57 years old in 1865. Though old and ugly, Mr. Graham was very rich and so, in Governor Taylor’s estimation, a perfect husband for someone young and silly as Miss Taylor. And although she had hardly given Canada a thought in her short life, her father deemed this mystery to the North to be civilized just enough for his daughter. 

The new Mrs. Graham found the Toronto winters harsh, hating the look of the place and thanking God for the railroads, which she used for her biannual trips to Montreal where she pretended the year was 1859 and she was still an American belle on her first and only trip to Paris. She was not much moved by Mr. Graham’s fatal heart attack, little more than a decade into the marriage, for here was a new opportunity to seek out the thrill of love.

She had not, however, anticipated that a long line of young things had queued to take her place in ballrooms and theater boxes and in the eyes of would-be suitors. Though she still felt young and silly as ever, time had dealt her a cruel blow. 

When it became clear that her charms had been outmatched by this newest iteration of lovely, reckless creature, Cicely Graham regrouped. As desperate to be admired as ever, there was surely another way to secure the attention of a new generation of young men. Her looks had only mildly faded, she thought, and she was as rich as ever. 

In the end, she decided that it would be perfectly acceptable for a wealthy widow to set aside money every year for some amiable young man to attend the local university. Perhaps she could shine her favor upon some provincial worthy, in need of funds, in need of  _ guidance  _ as they entered a new caste of society. She could offer both. She could. 

Her first boy was called Stephen Dumont, the oldest son of a poor widower in Quebec City. Mrs. Graham had been very generous in providing him with secondary English lessons.

Then there was Edmund Gabriel, then Harry MacLeod, then Timothy Paisley (sweet Tim!). 

And then there was Gilbert Blythe. 

Gilbert was all she could have hoped one of her boys to be. A boy from an island, far, far away from any metropolis. Impeccably polite, he was always grateful for what she gave him. He was amicable, a great addition to her dinner parties. Best of all, he was the best looking of any of her scholarship awardees so far. 

And there he was now, across the table from her as they took tea in her greenhouse. 

“I trust that your term was all you expected it to be,” she said as she lifted her teacup to her lips. She was always very careful to speak in generalities: she did not have even the faintest desire to get a boy animated so she would be forced to spend an afternoon oohing and aahing at one or another’s pet interest. That went especially for Mr. Blythe, who she understood took a particular interest in antibodies or immunology or something or other that went over her head and far beyond her abilities or interests. 

He smiled politely. “It did, ma’am, thank you. And how was New York?”

She shook her head at this before becoming conscious of her hat’s precarious position atop her head and the gray roots which had been coming through. She stilled. “My sister and her husband are always very kind to invite me down to stay, but I do say, New York is getting so far ahead of itself. It’s no London, no Paris.”

Gilbert knew that it was Mrs. Graham’s deepest desire to be enabled in moving back to the United States. It was fear of social nothingness, that she would be a little fish in a big pond, which stopped her. 

“No, no Paris,” Gilbert agreed, taking a sip of tea to hide his teasing smile. 

“But you of all people know what’s out there in the world, ready to be taken if someone only has the nerve. Oh, please, tell me again of Trinidad.” Mrs. Graham set her gaze on him, dropping her eyelids and pouting her lips just a bit. At 63 years old, it seemed a strange expression for her to take on and often made Gilbert wonder what habits of his youth he would carry with him into middle age and beyond. 

“Well, it’s very hot--”

She waved him off. “None of that. Tell me what I couldn’t have guessed.”

Perhaps, he thought, he would lie. He had done it before-- lied to Mrs. Graham, that is-- and had never been caught. He’d lied so she would not know his family was black (for this, he was not proud), he’d lied so as not to insult her (she always dug deep for compliments), and he had lied many times simply because he had felt like it. For all her generosity, Gilbert could not bear for this ridiculous woman to know all there was to know about him. To do so would be to acknowledge that he in some way was lesser than his classmates. A poor boy first, a future doctor second. 

The lies he told were white. The ship he’d worked on, to Mrs. Graham, was  _ The Hyacinth  _ instead of  _ The Primrose _ . His sister-in-law died in childbirth, not an infection of the blood many months after his niece had been born. She did not need to know the details of the aloneness he’d felt at his father’s passing, the pain he’d taken on in telling Mary she was not long for this earth. So he lied.

“When we got off the ship, the first thing we saw was a beautiful wedding in a magnificent white marble church.”

Her eyebrows raised in appreciation. “Oh?”

“Yes. The bride wore a lace dress. I remember hoping that, someday, my bride would wear something similar,” he told her. She did not need to know about the working woman who labored in agony alone. “What did you wear to your wedding, Mrs. Graham?” He asked quickly. 

“I wore the loveliest gown of white satin, with ribbons down the bodice and a garland of baby’s breath in my hair,” she told him, a faraway look in her eye. “Everyone said I made the most delightful bride.”

Gilbert smiled. “I’m sure Mr. Graham counted himself a very lucky man.”

Her lips pursed at this. “Oh, well. Perhaps.” 

“You know, Mrs. Graham,” he said, leaning in as though telling her a great secret. “Even though Trinidad was beautiful it couldn’t stand up to my own island.”

She laughed at this. “I remember, when I told my ladies’ club that this time I’d chosen a boy from Prince Edward Island, they all told me to have you peel off your boots before coming into the foyer or else the house would be covered in an angry red!”

“Yes,” Gilbert said, working to keep his expression neutral. “That famous red soil-”

“And they told me that you might bring me a bag of potatoes instead of a bouquet! What a relief when you came with tulips, but could you imagine!” 

Gilbert forced himself to nod at these insults. “What was it like to grow up in Delaware? I can hardly imagine it.”

“Oh, it was nothing,” she dismissed. “I have no particular attachment to the place.” She raised an eyebrow at the young man. “But I suppose leaving your idyllic Avonlay was quite an emotional hardship for you.”

“Avonlea,” he corrected quietly. “I often find myself thinking, on any given day, what my orchard must look like.” 

“Oh, why, yes.” She took a bite of a cucumber sandwich.

“Christmas in Avonlea is really something. I’m very much looking forward to going home to see my brother and niece in a few days,” he admitted.

She dropped a cookie. “Whatever could you mean? You’re needed for my New Year’s Eve celebration.”

“Mrs. Graham, I haven’t been home since this past Easter-”

“Yes, I understand that, but it is  _ customary  _ for each of my boys to come for New Year’s during their final year at the University. You must come! My friends are eager to see what it is you’ve been learning all these years!” The two stared at each other without blinking. “Oh, don’t look like that, young man! I hardly think you’ll be able to make it home every Christmas when you’re a medical researcher.”

He felt his fist clench beneath the table. “If this is what you want,” he said simply. 

“It is, indeed!” She exclaimed. “Yes! Patrick, yes, bring over that platter of cakes, won’t you? They never bring enough food the first time, I tell you.”

As it would turn out, Mrs. Graham had instructed Gilbert to arrive an hour before any other guests and before the hostess was even dressed and ready herself. Once the butler had left him alone, he wandered the house, taking in the holiday decorations-- thick garlands of evergreens, pine cones and berries brought in from he didn’t know where. 

He stepped out the door and into the yard. Mrs. Graham’s fountains lit up, the grass somehow cleared of snow. To his left, her personal tennis court was obscured by some monstrosity of a tent, designed to function as an additional ballroom for those fond of hypothermia. 

“Gilbert!” He heard his name called from somewhere behind the open doors. “Gilbert, where have you gone?”

Reluctantly, he stepped back inside to find Mrs. Graham in a gown of deep purple lace. Its most prominent feature, though, was it’s plunging neckline.

Gilbert covered his mouth as though he were coughing. “Why, don’t you look like quite the gentleman!” The woman approached him, a smile on her face. “My friends will hardly believe what I’ve made of you.”

Gilbert felt his jaw tighten but managed to smile. 

He stood several feet back as guests began to arrive, watching as Mrs. Graham welcomed and mingled. With each one, she said: “And this is my Mr. Blythe. Yes, isn’t he…” And it was any number of things. Dashing to her lady friends, clever to the deans and professors and businessmen. Eventually the festivities pulled her away from the door and towards the growing crowd. Gilbert took this as permission to do as he pleased. 

“Gilbert!” Mrs. Graham called once more. She crossed the length of the ballroom with great speed. 

She stood less than a foot in front of him, breathing heavily. “Have you  _ seen  _ Colonel Martin’s wife?” She asked. 

“Mrs. Graham-”

She gestured to a young woman in a purple evening dress. “Would you  _ look  _ at her? Does she not have any shame? Coming to  _ my  _ home dressed like that!” Gilbert looked closer at the woman. It would appear she was wearing a frock with a remarkable resemblance to Mrs. Graham’s. He looked back to his patroness, who appeared to be close to tears. “How am I supposed to go out there and mingle knowing that a poor imitation is wandering my ballroom?”

“Mrs. Graham-” He said again.

She put a hand to her temple. “I think a headache is coming on,” she said breathlessly. “I think I need to go lay down.” 

He watched the woman ascend the stairs, unsure what had just happened. 

“She’s… quite a woman,” a voice said from behind him. Gilbert turned to see Dr. Eddy, a physics professor at the University of Toronto, walking over to him. 

“She is, sir,” Gilbert agreed. 

“I suppose you’ll need someone to introduce you around now,” Dr. Eddy said, turning back towards the group. “Well, come on.” 

They wandered through the crowd for a few minutes, Dr. Eddy peering over heads in search of someone he himself knew. Gilbert found himself peering as well, looking for what, he didn’t know.

He stopped when he caught sight of a head of red hair pinned atop a pale, delicate neck. 

The professor noticed the young man and followed his line of vision. “Ah,” he said. “Would you like to be introduced to Mr. Werther’s young friend?” 

“Who is she?” Gilbert asked, making his way again through the thick of it. 

“I haven’t a clue,” Dr. Eddy called over his shoulder as the two approached.

As they approached, Gilbert heard a joyous voice. “Reginald!” The voice belonged to a tall, bald man, well over seventy. With him were two shorter, equally elderly gentlemen and the young red haired woman, at least as beautiful as any other lady in the room, and, Gilbert secretly suspected, more. 

The woman ducked her head and folded her hands behind her back as Gilbert and Dr. Eddy made their final approach. “How do you do, Charles?” Dr. Eddy said, grasping the man’s hand. 

“Very well, Reg. I see you’ve brought along one of your teacher’s pets, ah? And how many chalkboards did he need to clean to be invited to tag along tonight?”

“This one isn’t mine, Charles; he’s actually Mrs. Graham’s boy. She’s taken off for the night, so I’ve taken him under my wing.”

Charles Werther shook his head. “Silly old Cicely, she can never make it through one of these,” he said darkly. “Well, how do you do, young man? You already know I’m Charles Werther. And you?”

Gilbert took the man’s hand. “Gilbert Blythe.”

“Blythe,” he said, grasping Gilbert’s hand tightly. “Any relation to Peter Blythe? In banking in London?”

“No, sir, I don’t think so,” Gilbert said. “My family has been on Prince Edward Island for more generations than I can say.”

“Ah, Prince Edward Island!” Said one of Werther’s companions. “Then you must know Josephine Barry.”

“Not personally, no,” Gilbert admitted. “She was the aunt of one of the girls I grew up with.”

“A fine woman,” the man pronounced. 

“A fine woman,” the others concurred.

“Well, of course you’ll be needing introductions,” Mr. Werther said suddenly. “This is Mr. Clarence George, and that’s Mr. Robert George, my business partners.” Gilbert and the two men muttered their greetings. “And this flower here is a cousin of my late wife, Miss Sybil Lefroy.”

The woman raised her glance now, meeting Gilbert’s. She gave him her hand. “Miss Lefroy,” he said. 

“Miss Lefroy was telling us a unique knack she had as a child,” Mr. Clarence George said.

“Yes, go on, Sybil: what were you saying?” 

“Oh yes,” she said, looking around the group. “You could say I was an unusual child, always making guesses. Always getting those guesses right.

“When I was very small, it was small things. I knew when glasses would topple over, could always guess the first snowfall. My parents were quick to write it off as luck, but as I grew older, perhaps about nine years old, I came to understand that I was seeing things before they happened.”

Gilbert tried not to scrutinize the girl, especially when he saw how the older men were already enraptured by her account. 

“I saw the questions, typed out, neat and pretty, before my tutor had ever set the test. Saw a litter of black and white kittens before the orange mother had given birth. I saw any number of things, really.”

“Well, what else?” Mr. Werther urged.

“Hmm, let me think. There once was a storm with fierce winds that raged across the New England coast. The world was the most depressing gray you ever saw, but the day before there was remarkable peace-- blue skies and blue waters, the sun bright and clean, pouring bean green over blue in the waters off my darling, beautiful Nauset where my grandmother had her summer home. I had known, somehow, that the storm was coming; that the neighbors’ roofs would be blown away in the gusts, but my grandmother’s would be left in one piece. And, like clockwork, the storm came and did just as I’d predicted.”

“You said this was a childhood gift, Miss Lefroy,” Gilbert commented, an eyebrow raised at the girl. “So what happened to it, then?” 

She looked at him defiantly. “I was getting to that,” she told him. “When I was twelve years old I had a terrible premonition. I was with my governess in New Orleans, where my father had business. We were going to begin the long train journey north, and how I begged her to let us go by ship! I could see it, clear as day, the train tipping onto its side at 20 miles per hour just as it began to slow, ready to pull into the station in St. Louis, the crew seemingly unaware that there had been a freeze in the midwest. I could see it, and I told Miss Lyons that we really must not go. She had always thought these visions to be little childish tricks, and she herself was afraid of the sea, and so she insisted we go by rail. The train did just as I predicted. It was a dreadful thing. My governess and I climbed out a window and stood atop the carriage until help could come-”

“Were there casualties?” One of the Mr. Georges asked. 

“Oh, yes, I’m afraid there were,” the woman said. “I never could bring myself to read the papers to see how many.”

“And the premonitions?” Mr. Werther urged.

“I haven’t had another since that day,” she told them seriously. 

The attention of the room turned then to the members of the string octet, all taking their seats and taking up their instruments. 

“Shall we dance, my dear?” Mr. Werther asked Miss Lefroy. Gilbert saw as the corners of her lips pulled down at the corners, but only for a moment before being replaced by an empty smile.

“Yes,” she told him, giving him her hand. 

Gilbert watched the girl spin on the ballroom floor, her emerald green gown and vivid red hair making her easy to spot. With her face peering out over the septogenerian’s shoulder, Gilbert could see a deep unhappiness. Unlike the other young ladies, who danced freely with partner after partner, Mr. Werther very inappropriately monopolized her time. Gilbert had difficulty imagining the reason. 

The evening passed peacefully enough. Gilbert stood in the background of the excitement, eventually losing sight of Sybil Lefroy. Midnight rang out to great applause and clinking champagne glasses as the rich people welcomed 1903. Within an hour the place began to clear out, the ladies and gentleman donning their top hats and furs and braving the cold to hunt down their carriages and drivers. As the night settled, the music slowed to a near crawl. For the first time, he could see clearly across the ballroom. 

Miss Lefroy stood with her back to the glass doors, half in shadow, a dainty glass of water in her gloved hand. She saw him too, lifting her chin and a single corner of her mouth in a smile. She raised her glass to him. He raised his in turn. 

He found himself crossing the dancefloor, urged on by the conspiratorial sweetness of her expression.

“Hello, Miss Lefroy,” he said quietly as he approached. 

“Hello, Mr. Blythe,” she replied. “Happy New Year.”

“Happy New Year,” he told her. “I’m surprised to see you’re still here.”

“Yes, well my ride has fallen asleep. See, over in that chair there.” She gestured to the opposite corner of the long room where Mr. Werther was quietly snoring. 

“Will you wake him?” He asked.

“Not now. I always long for quiet after nights like these,” she told him. 

“Is there no quiet with Mr. Werther?” He teased. She ducked her head again.

“Is there quiet with Mrs. Graham?” She countered.

“It’s been a mercifully peaceful night.”

“For you,” she said with a kidding smile. “We can’t all be so lucky.”

“Is it very tiring, spending the entire evening dancing with Mr. Werther?”

“Yes,” she said, face falling. “It’s a great deal of work.” He had not expected such honesty. 

“Then why do it? There were any number of men, much closer to your own age, who would have been very happy to fill up your dance card.”

“Yes, perhaps…” she said vaguely, taking a sip of her drink as she avoided the question. 

“Maybe Mr. Werther is just very protective of… his late wife’s cousin?” Gilbert ventured. She turned to him sharply.

“Are you always so rudely inquisitive?” She demanded.

He shook his head. “I don’t think so.”

She took another sip of her water, slouching her back against the door once more. “I don’t suppose I’ll ever see you again?” She asked, half-statement, half-question. He shrugged. “I’m no relation to Mr. Werther,” she confided. 

“What are you, then?”

She smiled that conspiratorial smile. “A mere storyteller.”

He raised an eyebrow at this. “What does that mean?”

“Do you think someone like Mr. Werther would be able to collect friends as he does on the merit of his own personality alone?” The two looked back to the sleeping man.

Gilbert frowned. “Maybe not.”

“So, some men-- like Mr. Werther-- look for ways to move through the world socially, and there are people who can help them. When some man, Mr. Werther in this example, can… claim a person who has some talent, something that draws others in, it’s as good as being the talented one themselves,” she explained. 

“And you’re the talented person Mr. Werther has claimed?”

“My imagination is boundless,” she said seriously. 

“So you… tell stories?” He asked, confusion palpable. “But for what?”

She turned to him, face expressionless. “What reason do you have for coming to these parties and letting Mrs. Graham show you off like a winning pie?” He did not answer. “You need the money,” she said quietly. “So do I.” 

They stood there a moment, Gilbert’s mind working to understand what this young woman had just told him.

“Sybil,” he breathed. “A Greek prophetess.”

She smiled again. “A  _ remarkable _ coincidence, don’t you think?”

“Is Sybil not your name?” He asked, a bit too harshly, so confounded by this woman. She stared at him. “It’s not.” He concluded.

“For your purposes, my name is Sybil Lefroy,” she said carefully. He watched her closely as a waiter came around and took her empty glass. 

“But you say you’ve grown tired of Mr. Werther,” Gilbert reminded when the waiter was out of sight. “Why do you do it? Why not do something else?”

She shook her head. “Why do you not pay your own way through university instead of doing Mrs. Graham’s bidding? Why don’t you just settle as a yeoman farmer back on your island?” She prodded. “Because the money’s not there to do so. Because you hope for a modicum of dignity, you long to use your mind in some way. The same is true for me.”

Her lovely face fell, eyelids half closed in sadness. 

“Would you like to dance, Miss Lefroy?” He asked to his own surprise.

She ducked her head even further and gave a soft laugh. With a shake of her head, she murmured something like “a dangerous game.”

She looked at him then. There must have been something persuasive in his expression, because she said: “I’ll dance, but is there anywhere with fewer witnesses?”

“You mean people?” He laughed. She nudged him playfully with her elbow. “They’ve put up some sort of tent over the tennis court to make a second dance floor. Would that suit you?”

“Well, let’s see,” she said, already half out the door. 

Instead of another string quartet, there was a piano player positioned on a small platform beneath the tent. Remarkably warm, the tennis court was made bearable by way of propane heaters. Only three other couples, none of whom Gilbert recognized, were still dancing. He offered her his hand and led her in a slow waltz. 

They danced silently for a few minutes. Eventually she looked up at him, a smile on her magnificent face. “You look like you still have questions,” she said happily.

“How do you manage it?” He questioned. “Don’t these stories ever catch up with you? What happens when someone goes to St. Louis and they learn there wasn’t a train crash there within the last decade, and they come home to Toronto and bring it up with Mr. Werther?”

“Mr. Werther knows that I’m telling stories,” she said. “But if one of his friends were to find me out, or make a lucky guess, I suppose I would move on to spare Mr. Werther more questions. But it hasn’t happened before.”

“Before? There have been others before Mr. Werther?” He asked, incredulous.

“Yes,” she said with a frown. “A few.” 

“How…?”

She took hold of his hand, tighter than before. She did not look at him. “Since I was 13, I’ve made a small living telling stories. A poem for train fare, always moving. When I was 16, I’d earned a ferry ride to Long Island this way from an elderly fellow called Mr. Robinson. I suppose he liked what he heard, or liked what he saw. He asked if I would like to work for him as a sort of jester, entertaining his wealthy guests at parties, disguised as a distant cousin. Each place I’ve been since then, I’ve fallen into work in much the same way,” she told him, a small smile coming to her lips. “I think of myself as a type of troubadour.” 

“Why move on?” He asked as the song changed. “Why didn’t you stay with Mr. Robinson?” 

Her smile fell. “Why did Silly Cicely Graham choose you?” She whispered. “Please take no offense, but I’ve heard she collects beautiful young boys.” 

He felt his face pale. “They say that, don’t they?”

“Yes,” she agreed. “She fancies herself in love with them, I’ve been told.” He swallowed as she voiced his own suspicion. “It’s much the same for the Mr. Robinsons and Mr. Werther’s of the world,” she said quietly. 

“Is it?” He wondered if she could hear the horror in his voice. 

She looked far into the distance and nodded. “I leave when they tell me they think I’m the one.” He felt his skin prickle with goosebumps at her words, suddenly feeling very protective of this young woman, this person with the false name and her great game of make believe. “It’s all right,” she assured him, sensing his unease. “I know when to be ready to leave.”

“When?” He asked.

“It’s always after they’ve danced with me.” Her words fell heavily. “I’ll move on soon.” 

“Where will you go?” He asked her anxiously.

“West, I hope,” she told him, eyes lighting up. “I have great hopes of learning to ride horses and exploring the wide open country, with skies bigger than any I’ve ever seen before.”

“You know,” he told her. “You’ll definitely find the skies to be impressive. My father and I lived once in Alberta.”

A slow, wide smile crept across her face as she gazed up at him. “Oh,” she said happily. “You’re a cowboy like me.” 

He swallowed hard, moved by the expression on her face. “Won’t you tell me your name?” He whispered. “Say it quietly and no one else will hear.”

Her smile faltered a bit. “Not today,” she said. “Perhaps before I move on, when I know it’s safe.”

“Why do you have to move on?” He questioned, sounding younger than he intended. “Why can’t you write your stories down and publish them? One of my classmate’s sisters makes a neat living publishing in magazines,” he suggested. 

Her face fell completely. He felt her body tense in his arms. “I can’t,” she said. 

“Of course you can!” He encouraged. “You just have to write them down, it’s the simplest thing in the world--”

“It’s not!” She said harshly, taking a step away from him.

“I’m sorry,” he sputtered. “But I don’t understand--” 

She crossed her arms and shook her head. “Don’t make me say it.”

“You don’t have to say it,” he assured. “Whatever it is. But I don’t understand.”

She looked at him for a long moment, still cross. Eventually her expression softened and her gaze fell to the floor. “You wouldn’t understand,” she muttered. “How fortunate you are!” She said, her voice a bit too loud, a bit shrill. She hiccuped. “How easy it all must have come for a university man!”

“Nothing was easy for me,” he said softly, reaching out a gentle hand to grasp her delicate wrist. “I was orphaned at 15. My dad had been sick for a long time. I shoveled coal on a ship for nearly a year and when I came back home, I found I was hopelessly behind in my education. I struggled for many months to catch up. I finished school two years behind everyone else.”

She pouted, perhaps upset that she had been proven wrong. A thought occurred to her. “How do I know that’s the truth?”

“Pardon?”

“Surely you don’t tell the truth all of the time. Surely you protect yourself by keeping pieces of your heart and your mind to yourself,” she told him. “And surely that necessitates some white lies.”

He was reminded of the many fibs he had told to Mrs. Graham over the years. He looked at her squarely. “You’re right,” he told her. “But I’ve told you the truth.”

She bit her lip, struggling to come to a decision. “I can’t write,” she said simply.

“How is that possible? You knew to call yourself Sybil, you’ve obviously read the classics--”

“Yes, I’ve  _ read _ the classics,” she said impatiently. “But I can’t  _ write _ . Not well, at least.”

“How…?” He didn’t know what questions to ask anymore.

“You were old enough when your father died that you never had to spend time in an orphanage, but I certainly did, and I can tell you that they are not bastions of educational excellence,” she said with a roll of her eyes. “And they hire you out to work for families in the area. Many orphans never spend more than a few weeks, consecutively, in the classroom. The mother of the family I worked for, she made sure I could read so I could run errands for her. She didn’t see why it would be necessary for me to learn to write.” He must have gawked. “Don’t look at me like that, so pitifully! When I lived in Massachusetts, I went to an old house museum. The Puritans used to teach their girls to read, so they could read the Bible, but wouldn’t bother to teach them to write. They’re two completely separate skills-”

“I’ll teach you,” he blurted out. She looked at him sceptically. “I was lucky enough to have a teacher who worked with me, who got me up to scratch. Don’t I owe it to the world to do the same for someone?” He thought this was as good an excuse as any to spend more time with the young woman. 

She shook her head. “I don’t want your charity--”

He took her hand again. “No, not charity. Just a friend helping.”

They stood there, less than a foot apart, each trying to understand the other.

“Gilbert?” He heard a distant voice call over the sound of the piano’s sweet notes. With bare arms, Mrs. Graham came under the tent. “Oh,” she said, surprised to see he had company. Her hair was half matted, face red from crying. “Do I look all right?” The older woman asked him, smoothing the folds of her skirt.

“You look wonderful, Mrs. Graham,” Gilbert responded. “Please go back inside, you must be freezing. I’ll be in soon.” Mrs. Graham nodded and turned to go back towards the house. 

“See,” the woman who called herself Sybil Lefroy said from behind him. “You tell stories, too.” He felt her brush by him. “I need to wake Mr. Werther now,” she said without turning. He watched her retreat.

It took him a few minutes to will himself back into the house. With Mrs. Graham fretting over the mess littered across the ballroom, he caught his last glimpse of Mr. Werther speaking incoherently. He saw the red haired troubadour turn back to him, spotting Gilbert from a window in their carriage, looking profoundly unhappy. She raised a hand to the glass as the carriage drove off. 

Gilbert watched her leave, wishing her happiness. 

  
  



	2. Chapter 2

Gilbert Blythe’s final term at the University of Toronto began much as any other, with the same early mornings and long nights. His friends joked and laughed just the same as they always had, if not more than ever once Gilbert began to ask them discreetly if they’d ever heard of a Sybil Lefroy, if they might know someone who would have her address. 

“Sybil Lefroy?” Asked Louis Drummond, a third year. “I think my mother has her cookbook.”

The others laughed raucously at this. 

“I don’t think Blythe is trying to get in touch with some lady baker,” said Edward Pond. “Or are you?” He teased, hurling a snowball the few feet that separated them as the three walked to campus.

“I’m not,” Gilbert assured. “I met Sybil at that party Mrs. Graham hosted a couple of weeks ago.” 

“You met her only once and you’re already calling her Sybil?” Louis questioned. “Did something else happen you’re not telling us about?”

“Nothing else happened,” Gilbert responded with a yawn as they crossed the frozen quadrangle to the undergraduate laboratories. 

Leaping over low shrubs and into the covered stone walkway, the trio did not quickly notice the click-clack sound of approaching boots.

“If we’re late again, Oak will have our heads-”

“Gilbert Blythe,” a feminine voice called. The three men turned. Sybil Lefroy stood twenty feet away, the navy blue wool of her walking suit and the chill winter air making her deep red hair stand out almost as much as it had on the ballroom floor. 

She began to come towards them. Gilbert, thinking quickly to spare himself his friends’ leers, hurried towards her. “Miss Lefroy,” he breathed. 

“I’ve been looking for you,” she told him. “I’ve been thinking about what you said, how you could give me lessons, and I want to take you up on your offer-”

“Blythe!” Edward called from behind him. “Tell her to wait! Come on!”

“What?” She breathed. “You can’t go! I’ve spent the last hour looking for you--”

“I’m so sorry, I have class-”

“But Mr. Blythe-”

He grasped her arms. “Sybil, I’m sorry, but I have to go. Do you see that building there?” He pointed across the quad. “That’s the library. I’ll meet you there in three hours once my lesson is over.” He began to retreat. She called for him weakly. “I’m sorry!” He called back over his shoulder, running to catch up with the others. 

“ _ That’s  _ Sybil Lefroy?” Edward questioned as they turned the final corner toward their classroom. “It’s a redhead that’s finally caught your eye?”

“What is she doing here?” Louis added.

“I offered to help her with something,” Gilbert muttered as they walked through the door.

“And she’s decided to take you up on the offer?” Edward theorized as the three donned their lab coats. 

“What are you going to help her with?” Louis whispered as they hurried to their lab station. 

“She wouldn’t like it if I said,” Gilbert said under his breath. 

Edward and Louis shared a look. “Enlighten us anyway,” Louis suggested.

“What is it you’re going to be doing with that girl?”

“Gentlemen,” Dr. Oak called out sharply from her place in front of the blackboard. “And ladies,” she said fondly to the two young women in the second row. “I trust you had a restful holiday season. We have a lot of important work to get on with, though, so we’re going to jump right into it. Who can tell me the year the first cholera vaccine was released? Yes, Watts?”

“1879,” one of the women up front said. 

Gilbert felt his insides twist throughout the lesson and the experiment, nervous that he’d put her off, that she would be gone again, leaving him with no way of tracing her. He hurried out of the room once Dr. Oak dismissed them at noon, not waiting for his friends to follow. 

He half-ran to the library, searching the aisles for a flash of red and dark blue. His heart nearly stopped when he finally found her, arguing with the librarian at the circulation desk.

“I’m sorry, young lady, but this is a  _ science _ library. We’re rather low-stocked on fiction,” the middle-aged Miss Chapman said with barely concealed annoyance. 

“Are you  _ completely  _ sure you haven’t got  _ anything _ by any of the Brontes? There’s three of them, you know, and nothing by any of the three? And you’re searching their names correctly? There’s Charlotte, then Emily, then--”

“Sybil,” Gilbert said as he approached her. “You waited.”

“Oh, yes,” she said to him, quietly excusing herself to the librarian (to the older woman’s great relief). “I’ve been reading  _ Grey’s Anatomy,  _ as I’ve often heard it mentioned, but I don’t really want any further part in it. The only thing it has going for it are some of the wonderful names given to the bones.”

He chuckled. “It’s a textbook: what did you think you’d find?”

“I always find it absolutely shocking when I learn the details of professional boredom! There is so little scope for imagination in so many of the vocations I’ve come into contact with, I wonder how anyone survives.”

“They  _ survive,”  _ he said, nudging her. “Because doctors have bothered to read those textbooks anyway.”

“Fair enough,” she said, leading him to the table she had claimed. “What did your friends say about me? Did you three hear me approaching? Did any of them think I seemed a bit ghostly?”

“What do you mean, ghostly?”

“I’ve been wondering if I would ever be able to leave someone with the nagging feeling that, after having met me, they’d seen a ghost. I don’t think I could convince them _ completely _ that I’m a phantom, a mere spectre, but if they could just halfway  _ suspect _ , that would really be something, wouldn’t it?

“I suspect it’s quite like I was never there,” Sybil continued. “Once I’m gone.”

Gilbert stopped walking. “Is that it, then?” He asked. “Have you decided to move on?”

“Mr. Werther has gone to visit his niece in Providence, Rhode Island. I, of course, can’t go  _ there. _ So I’m grounded at the moment,” she smiled reassuringly.

“Will you tell me?” He tried again. “Before you go?”

She bit at her bottom lip. “I’ll try to,” she said finally. “Sometimes it all happens very quickly.”

He could do nothing but accept this. He had many questions for her, all hanging in the air around them, unvoiced.

_ Was she Sybil each time, to each wealthy old man? Was she someone new with each place? Did she ever mix up her stories, get caught in her lies? Was she ever recognized? Did anyone ever not believe her?  _

_ Was she safe? _

“Wait: why can’t you go to Providence?” A silly, inconsequential question to settle on, really.

“I have my reasons,” she said with a sly smile, tapping a finger to the side of her nose. 

“And they are?” He pushed. 

She looked over both her shoulders, checking for specters who may hear the truth. “Before Toronto, I was in Massachusetts. A little seaside town called Marblehead.” 

“So?”

“Marblehead and Providence are just a short train ride away from one another,” she explained. “It would be too close for comfort.”

“Were you a fortune teller in Marblehead, too?” He found himself asking. She leaned down onto the tabletop, the same sly smile on her face.

“No,” she said, clearly enjoying herself. “I wasn’t.”

“Were you called Sybil then?”

“Again, no,” she said, tapping her hands against the table.

“All right, how about a deal? Yes, a deal!” Gilbert said. “You owe me, since I’m going to be putting in a lot of work with your lessons-”

“So you’ll do it!” She exclaimed, sitting bolt upright in her seat.

“Of course I’ll do it,” he told her. “You won’t tell me your actual name. I understand. But could you tell me the other names you’ve used? Tell me the stories you made up for yourself?”

She pursed her lips, weighing the dangers of divulging this information. “In Massachusetts I called myself Elspeth Sutherland,” she said, face straight. “I told people I was the daughter of the Sutherland clan chieftain, murdered for his great greed by a tenant farmer. I said my widowed mother fled Scotland with my infant self and settled in New Orleans. My mother had sent me to New England after getting word that her younger brother had immigrated to Boston, but I arrived to find that he’d perished in a smallpox outbreak.”

“New Orleans?” Gilbert asked, sceptical. “I don’t know much about the American South, admittedly, but isn’t there some sort of… drawl? Which you don’t have.”

That childish smirk returned. “Luckily no one in Massachusetts has any idea what they sound like South of Philadelphia. I just did my best and no one bothered with me.”

“You took on an accent? For how long?”

“Oh, about a year? It wasn’t so hard. I was in New Orleans for six months before that.”

“Who were you in New Orleans?”

“Violet Quinn,” she said quietly. “I said I was down from Chicago to join a convent, but when I got there it turned out the convent never existed. Go figure,” she said with a shrug, as if the story were still alive in her mind. 

“But only six months? Do you usually come and go so quickly?” He asked, forehead creasing in concern.

“Don’t worry,” she said, half-teasing. “I try to stay longer. I was in Chicago for more than a year.”

“But New Orleans?” He said, trying to joke but missing the mark. “Did you not like warm weather? What went wrong?”

Her face dropped. “No,” she said simply. 

“What?”

“We’re not talking about that,” she told him as she opened  _ Grey’s Anatomy _ .

“Well what about Chicago?” He asked, trying to reclaim her attention.

“Chicago was fine,” she said dismissively. “I was called Isobel there. I said my parents drowned in a shipwreck.”

“And what about with Mr. Robinson?” He was desperate to steer her mood back to where it had been.

“He was before Chicago. I was called Cordelia then, and I was just some distant cousin.” She leaned back in her seat, her arms crossed, and looked out the window to the snowy campus grounds.

“Can I ask you just one more question?” He dared. “It’s… the worst one of all, but I won’t ask anymore.”

She looked at him, an eyebrow quirked in annoyance. “Go on then.”

“Are you safe?”

She cast her gaze down towards her lap. “Would it make you feel better if I said ‘yes’?”

He didn’t answer right away, wrestling with the implication of what she had said. “Sybil…”

“I’m all right now,” she told him. “You don’t need to worry about me, I’m just answering your questions. And I’m only answering your questions because you’re-” she stopped herself, looking out the window as she smoothed out the lap of her skirt. She turned back to him. “I don’t want to do this anymore.”

“You want to leave?” Gilbert asked.

“No,” she said, shaking her head gently, her voice quiet. “I want Sybil Lefroy to be my last story.”

“Oh,” he breathed.

“I’m clever,” she said. “I’m as clever as any of the men here, I feel it in the essence of my soul. I want something else. I don’t know what to want, but I want something else.”

“I’ll help you,” he said quickly. 

“Do you know how?” She asked. “Do you know how to teach someone to write?”

“Well, I guess I thought we would do what all school children do,” he said. She looked at him sceptically. “We could get the readers, practice your penmanship. But I don’t know what it is you already know.”

She put a hand to her temple. “Don’t make fun of me,” she muttered. “Give me a piece of paper.”

He reached into his bag and then handed her a scrap of paper and a pencil. He watched as she slowly and carefully left her mark. After a minute, she pushed the paper back to him, her eyes closed. 

_ Helo im Sibyl _

_ Cibil _

_ Sibil _

“It’s horrible, isn’t it?” She asked him, eyes still closed. “I read what I’ve written and I know it’s so very wrong, but I can’t think the way I should. I can’t write it as I would read it.” Beneath her chicken scratch, he wrote his own message.

_ Hello, I’m Sybil.  _

“See?” He said. “Just a few small things. S-Y-B-I-L is probably how you spell your name, but I’ve seen it a time or two the first way you spelt it.”

“It’s not my name,” she reminded him.

“For my purposes, it is,” he reminded her, daring a wink. The young woman laughed.

“I know how to spell my real name,” she told him sheepishly. “It’s quite a plain, ugly name.”

“I doubt it,” he replied, moving to write more. 

_ Hello, Sybil. I’m Gilbert Blythe. My address is 24 Red Oaks Blvd. Keep this in case you ever need me.  _

She read it over twice before looking up at him. “I’m sure I’ll make a mistake,” she told him. “You should write mine.”

“No, you try first.”

With a sigh, she picked the pencil back up and tore off a corner of the paper. 

_ Sybil- 1556 Est Poppy Rd _

“See?” She said. “Horrible.”

“Not even close to horrible! You’ve got the name right, you’ll never miswrite it again. I’m sure. Now, this is meant to be ‘East,’ right?”

They met in that library every Tuesday and Friday afternoon, sometimes staying until Miss Chapman hollered through the aisles, warning the students she  _ could  _ and  _ would  _ lock them in there for the night if they didn’t immediately leave. On these evenings, Gilbert would walk with her, but only so far as 61st. Here, she would turn to him, thank him, and wish him a good night before continuing on alone another block or two and around a corner. 

“Won’t you let me walk you the rest of the way?” He asked her one night in early March. 

She gave him a sad smile. “They already suspect I’m some sort of harlot at my boarding house,” she said. “I shouldn’t risk them seeing me with a man so late at night.”

“Why would they think that?” He asked as they stood waiting to cross 60th. 

“Oh, they just don’t understand why I’m always coming and going in evening gowns but never have any fellows dropping by on Saturday afternoons like the other girls.”

“Those aren’t crimes,” he said.

“I know that,” she replied bitterly, then sighed. “I long to be normal, Gilbert.”

And what could he do to fulfill that wish for her, just a bit? He could show up on a Saturday afternoon, stand in line behind the other men and wait for his turn to announce himself at the door.

He could bring flowers.

So he did.

One by one, the men were called forward. “Mr. Klein for Miss Godfrey,” and then “Mr. Landry for Miss Kessler.” On and on.

“Mr. Blythe for Miss Lefroy,” he told the bored landlady, pulling at his collar. He could see into the sitting room. Quiet swept across the girls until the boarders began to whisper.

“Sybil?” They mouthed. “She doesn’t even come down on Saturdays.”

“Well someone go get her!” The landlady very nearly shouted. A blonde girl scurried up the stairs and out of sight. 

She reemerged with another young woman in tow, still working to quickly pin up her red braid. 

He smiled from his spot in the doorway. “Hello, Sybil,” he called, raising a hand. “I brought these for you.” He gestured to the bouquet of irises. She appeared dazed as she took the last few steps across the sitting room. 

“Gil-- Mr. Blythe, you shouldn’t have.” She took them from him. He ignored the uncertainty and distance in her tone. 

“I saw them and thought of you,” he told her sweetly. “May I come in?”

Sybil looked back at the rest of the room, at all the staring eyes. “It’s nearly warm, let’s go for a walk.” She began to step out the door.

“Your coat?” He suggested. “Hat?

“Oh,” she said, feeling at her half-pinned hair. “Please come in while I get my things.” She looked reluctant to say it.

Happily, Gilbert took his seat beside the only other fellow who waited alone. 

“Was that your girl?” The other man grunted.

“You’d have to ask her that,” Gilbert shrugged with a smile. In truth, he was grateful to have been acknowledged, let alone accepted by Sybil in such a manner. 

Soon enough she had returned in her blue walking suit, slipping into her coat. She stood at the foot of the stairs, faintly blushing. Together they left the boarding house and started north towards the nearest shops.

“This was… a surprise,” Sybil said when they were out of sight of the door. 

“A good one, I hope.”

She looked to her feet and let out a breathy laugh. “You don’t know how good,” she said.

“Yeah?” He asked, brightening. “Tell me.”

She stopped and inspected him carefully. “Today is my birthday.”

“Really?” He replied. “Happy birthday, Sybil!”

“Sybil’s birthday is in June,” she said quietly. “It’s  _ my  _ birthday.”

He thought he understood, then, the degree to which she had compartmentalized and divided her life. There was Sybil and then there was  _ her.  _

“Happy birthday to you,” he told her. “What is it you would like to do?”

“Oh, just a walk in the park would be wonderful. The snow is nearly melted, these are the last moments of winter and we can’t let it blur together with the next and the one before it,” she told him. “The years do have a horrible habit of blending together,” she whispered. 

They walked in amicable silence, her arm through his. Gilbert pulled her gently into a bakery, buying her sweets despite her lackluster protests.

“Do you think you’ll share?” He asked as she took a bite of a roll, poking her in her side. 

“You’ll just have to wait until your own birthday,” she said, feigning haughtiness. He stopped walking, a mischievous smile on his face. “What?”

“Or I could take it from you.” With greedy fingers, he reached for her bag of goodies. Sybil screeched and began to run down the pavement, bumping into businessmen as she went. He chased after her, following her into the street as they narrowly missed a passing omnibus. Drivers yelled and they ran faster still. 

They stopped, breathing heavily near the park fountain. A violinist played flamboyantly while a second rate ballerina spun in time to the music. He watched her catch her breath, saw as she smiled widely at the scene. She turned her head to the left to look at him.

“What’s that expression on your face?” She asked him, face falling a bit as she assessed him. 

“I don’t know,” he said, still half-panting. She reached her fingers to the back of his wrist as though feeling for his pulse. She counted several beats.

“You’re my best friend,” she told him. He waited a moment too long before he replied. She had dropped her hand.

“You’re mine,” he said, quieter than her. He saw her eyes narrow as she looked beyond the fountain and deeper into the park.

“Do you know me?” She wondered aloud. “You know,” she said quickly. “I’ve  _ been  _ to Prince Edward Island. I was meant to be adopted, but instead the family accused me of being a thief and sent me back to the asylum in Nova Scotia. That’s why all of this started. I couldn’t bear the hopelessness of that place, I decided anything was better.”

“I’m sorry,” he told her, putting his fingers to her gloved wrist, much the same as she had done. “Sybil will be your last story,” he told her. “I promise.”

She took his arm and began to walk deeper into the park. “Sometimes I can see it, a future, bright and lovely and full of promise and the joy of the written word. Others I can’t fathom a way out of all the lies I’ve told.”

This time he took hold of her entire hand, giving it a squeeze. “I  _ promise, _ ” he said again. They stood there in the middle of the path, nannies pushing carriages walking around them, a dog pulling on its leash to be allowed a better look. She put a hand to Gilbert’s cheek, a smile playing on half of her face.

“Violet?” A man’s voice called from a distance. Gilbert saw her face fall, her eyes widen in recognition and then urgent fear. 

“Violet!” She took his arm once more, pulling him along, her pace quick. “Violet!” The call was closer now.

“I need you to do something, Gilbert,” she said, her lips barely moving. “You need to pretend you have no idea what this man is talking about. You need to pretend you’ve known me a long time. Don’t say my name. Don’t call me by any name. You have to do the talking, or he’ll recognize my voice-” Gilbert turned his head to peer over his shoulder, a man in early middle age, face unshaved, was rapidly approaching. “Don’t look back!” She hissed. “Please, give me a story. Convince him he’s mistaken.”

“Violet!” The man called one final time, so close now. Instinctively, Gilbert moved to wrap a protective arm around his companion’s waist. He felt her shudder as the older man wrapped a hand around her bicep. 

“Hey!” Gilbert found himself saying, voice loud. “Don’t touch her!”

“Violet, what the  _ hell  _ are you doing?” The man spit. Gilbert saw that Sybil wore an expression of horror-- put on or genuine, he could not say. 

“She’s not Violet, you fool!” Gilbert said, his anger matching the man’s. 

“And what are you, her beau?” The man sneered.

“I am!” Gilbert said. 

The man ignored Gilbert. “What are you  _ doing  _ here? All the way from Louisiana--”

“Listen: you’ve got the wrong girl. She’s never even been out of Canada.”

“Yeah? Is that what you told him?” The man said, moving to take her hand. She worked hard to pull it back.

“I told you not to touch her!” Gilbert said. “You’ve got the wrong girl. We grew up together. This isn’t who you think it is. Go now, or I’ll go find an officer.” A group of onlookers was beginning to assemble, drawn in by the commotion. 

“Leave the young people alone!” An older matriarch called from the group. 

“You’ve got the wrong lass!” A man yelled.

“Get on!”

Perhaps the man was unnerved by the witnesses. He soon backed away, moving to cross the green to the sound of the crowd’s leers. 

Gilbert nearly jumped when he felt a heavy hand fall onto his shoulder. “Take your sweetheart home now, son.” Gilbert turned to see an elderly man in a flat cap. “That gentleman’s not well.”

Gilbert did not need time to think about it. He scrambled to where Sybil stood huddled with the other women who had worked to straighten her disheveled clothing.

“Go on, dear,” the ladies encouraged as Gilbert offered her his hand. Instead, she clung to his arm and led him out of the park. She brought him several blocks beyond the park before turning into the lobby of a large hotel. She fell heavily onto a couch and he took his spot beside her. 

Her body crumbled in half, her elbows leaning on her knees, her hands bracing her head as they teach you to do when the room is spinning. 

He opened his mouth, ready to call out “Sybil,” but he stopped himself. He felt that she wouldn’t like to hear that name. Instead, he put a hand to her back.

“I have to leave,” her muffled voice said. “I have to go.”

He stilled. “Who was that man?”

She looked up, eyes red. “Harlan Carlisle,” she told him. “The Mr. Werther of New Orleans.”

“He followed you here?”

“I don’t know,” she said, shaking her head. “Perhaps it's a coincidence, but it’s not safe now that he knows that I’m here.”

“Why?” He asked. “Why aren’t you safe?”

“You saw him, he’s quite mad!”

“No,” he said. “He knows now he’s mistaken. He doesn’t know you’re here. And if he finds you again, he knows you’re not… you’re not alone! I, at least, will go looking for you.” She looked to him, her eyes wide. He took her hands into his lap, grasping them tightly. “He won’t hurt you,” he promised. “Don’t go. Please don’t go. Not yet.”

She looked down to their joined hands and nodded once.

There were months of relative peace, though Mrs. Graham raised quite an uproar when Gilbert informed her that he would be continuing onto medical school in Nova Scotia on an academic scholarship directly through the university.

“But  _ Gilbert _ ,” his patroness whined one day over tea. “What is that horrible little place to  _ Toronto!  _ This, Gilbert, this is where your friends are!”

“I’m sorry, Mrs. Graham,” he lied. “But I need to be closer to my family.”

He had not yet landed on a way of telling Sybil that he would be leaving Toronto for good. He often slept poorly, wondering how he could keep his promise to her over such a distance and, more than that, dreading the moment of separation. 

He did not want to leave her. Equally, he did not want her to leave. 

A week before his graduation and he had still not found the words to tell her he was leaving. From across the library table, she slid him a folded piece of paper, a shy smile on her face.

“What’s this?” He asked as he unfolded it. 

“To commemorate another orphan’s great achievement,” she said. 

She’d written him a poem. Just a few lines, but it was clear that she had improved dramatically over the past few months. He no longer stumbled over her written words, but could hear the whisper of her voice in her sonnet. 

“This is wonderful,” he told her. “Thank you.” 

“It’s of course a small present,” she said. “Nothing compared to the party Mrs. Graham is throwing you.”

He groaned. “How could I forget?” 

“It won’t be so bad,” she told him. “She’ll be half giddy to tell all her friends about her next boy.” 

“Am I so easily replaced?” He teased, rising from his seat.

“Oh, I couldn’t replace you,” she said, cheeks coloring. He was quiet for the rest of the walk, hardly noticing when she allowed him to continue on all the way to her boarding house.

“Goodnight, Gilbert,” she said quietly. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

This shook him. “You’re coming to Mrs. Graham’s garden party?” 

“Mr. Werther is,” she explained. “So I am, too.”

With Sybil’s face in his mind, he dressed carefully before leaving the next day for Mrs. Graham’s austentatious home. Always quick to spot her in a crowd, she sat at a central table in the gardens in her white summer day dress as the band played. 

He soon noticed Charles Werther sitting opposite her, a cane which he had not possessed at their introduction leaned against the table. 

Gilbert was suddenly unsure whether or not he should approach her. He did not have long to fret, as Mrs. Graham was soon ushering him to the small stage where the band played. She worked to hush her guests. 

“My  _ dear  _ Gilbert,” she began, though it was the crowd which she addressed. “On to medical school! More clever than I could ever hope to be!” She laughed at this, and some of the partygoers joined in, the sound thin and uncomfortable. “It’s always such a sad day when I have to say goodbye to one of my boys. Yes! I’ve spent my fair share of summers in despair, missing the fellow who I had grown so intimate with over the past four years. I am, however, always cheered when I remember that, as they say, it is truly out with the old and in with the new! There will always be someone after the last, and what a pleasant thought that is!” She had perhaps intended the crowd to applaud. They did not. “Anyway, congratulations, Mr. Blythe. Best wishes,” she said quickly before guiding him off the stage. He had not said a word. 

Climbing down, he saw Sybil smile. He took this as encouragement to join their group. 

“Hello, Sybil,” he said. “May I take a seat?” 

The young woman nodded as her older companion’s expression hardened. “Quite disrespectful, young man,” he commented. “To call a lady by her Christian name when you’ve only met her once.”

“Gilbert’s a friend of mine, Cousin Charles,” Sybil said. 

“A friend of yours?” Mr. Werther repeated. 

“You know how the young people are these days, Werther,” one of his friends said with a yawn. “So sociable. Why, we can hardly keep track of Amelia and Louisa’s many friends and beaus.”

“Beaus?” Mr. Werther said, but he was ignored by the rest of the table as they asked Gilbert about his studies. 

The music picked up and the young people took to the wide stone veranda. “Would you like to dance, Sybil?” Gilbert asked. In response, she stood. 

“Sybil,” Werther said, taking hold of her hand as she passed. “Are you very sure this is what you want to do?”

“Oh, let her go, Charles,” one of the Mrs. George’s said. “They’re only young once.”

“Sybil,” Werther said again.

“Go on,” Mrs. George said, taking a sip of her champagne. “Don’t let your old cousin stop you from having a good time. You have my permission.”

Sybil smiled. It would seem she was sure this was what she wanted. Gilbert led her to the veranda. 

He did not relinquish her back to Mr. Werther.

At sunset, the party dispersed. He kissed her hands and promised to see her Tuesday.

In his room at his boarding house, he hummed the tunes the two had danced to and slept sounder than he had in weeks. 

He was awoken before dawn by a loud tapping on his second story window. Again, then again, something clicked off the glass. It took his tired mind a moment to realize someone was throwing rocks at his window. He opened it to see Sybil, still in her white day dress, hair disheveled. A trunk lay at her feet. 

“Gilbert,” she said, voice breaking. “I’ve come to say goodbye!”

“What?” He nearly yelled, forgetting the early hour. 

“I have to go!” She told him, wiping at her face. “I didn’t want to leave without telling you.”

“You’re leaving  _ now? _ ” 

“Yes!” She said.

“Stay there!” He called. “I’m coming down!”

He stepped away from the window and quickly dressed. He ran down the stairs and out the door, finding Sybil huddled beneath a tree, eyes darting in every direction.

“Sybil, what happened?” His voice was somehow harsh. But how could she leave? Now? When he had so little time with her?

“Carlisle came back,” she said, still looking over her shoulder. “He approached me as Werther and I got out of his carriage in front of his house, saying he wanted me, that I was…  _ his,”  _ she spat the word. “He and Werther got into a yelling match. The butler yanked me into the house and forced me to wait in the sitting room. When Mr. Werther returned, he yelled at me, said I wasn’t allowed to associate with you. He  _ demanded  _ that I marry him. He kept saying that it was the only way I could be safe, and I kept telling him I wanted to go home, but he wouldn’t let me until I’d said that I would accept his proposal!” 

Gilbert stood in silence. 

“So I need to leave. Twice over, I need to leave, but I couldn’t leave without telling you.” Still, he stood silent. “Gilbert, say something!”

He could hear his own heartbeat. “Come with me,” he said suddenly. “We’ll go to Avonlea. You’ll be safe there-”

“Gilbert, I have to leave  _ now _ -”

“We’ll go now,” he said. 

“I can’t just…” She put a hand to her forehead. “I can’t just  _ go _ -”

“You can, though,” he insisted, putting his hands on each of her arms. “I own the house, I can bring anyone I want home. I’ll send a telegram to my brother telling him I’m bringing someone home. Prince Edward Island is as good a place to run to as any,” he pleaded. “Please. Come.”

He saw how she wavered, saw her wring her hands nervously. After a moment, she took a step forward, burying her face into his chest. He wrapped his arms around her.

“What will we tell them?” She asked, voice muffled against his shirt. “Your brother and the people in your town?”

“I promised that Sybil would be your last story,” he told her gently. “If you want, we can tell them the truth.”

She did not respond to this. “You’ll miss your graduation,” she said quietly.

“It doesn’t matter,” he said. “Come wait in the sitting room, I’ll go get my things.”

“What if someone sees me?” She worried. 

Gilbert laughed. “What can happen: I’m leaving?”

He took about 45 minutes to pack his trunk and leave a note for his landlady. She put a hand to his chest as they made their way to the front door, stopping him.

“You’re sure this is what you want?” She asked him. “You’re sure this will work?”

He tapped his nose as she had that first day in the library. “I have some tricks up my sleeve, too, you know.”

They walked a few streets, hauling their heavy trunks until he was able to hail a cab to the train station. He sent a telegram to his brother before arranging their tickets. They settled into a second class carriage, Sybil taking a seat opposite him. They sat in silence as she fixed her gaze out the window, looking back on the city of Toronto until it was a speck, and then nothing at all.

“Is everything all right, Sybil?” He finally dared to ask. She stood and took the seat beside him, this time looking east. 

“Anne,” she said.

“What?”

“Anne. My name is Anne. I spell it with an ‘e.’” 

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi everyone,
> 
> Here's the second chapter of this story. I'm anticipating there being about one or two more. I hope you all enjoy :)
> 
> Best,  
> S


	3. Chapter 3

With his daughter balanced on his hip, Sebastian Lacroix dragged his tired body into his kitchen where his stepson and mother were already seated and halfway through their morning meal. 

“Sleep all right, Bash?” Elijah asked, watching as the older man settled his sister into a seat and dished them both their breakfast.

“Better than the night before,” he said with a yawn. “But not good.”

“Are you sure you’ve got no idea why Gilbert’s coming home early?” Elijah asked through a mouthful of eggs. “Any chance he didn’t finish the degree? They kicked him out?”

“No idea,” Bash responded. “And bringing another moke home with him, too.” He rubbed at his eyes. “And I forgot to get the guest room ready.”

“I already set up the camp bed in Gilbert’s room,” Hazel said. “No need to go through the trouble of getting a room ready when we don’t know how long the boy’s staying. He might just be passing through.”

“Thanks, Ma,” Bash said, stirring his oatmeal. “You think you can keep an eye on Delphine while I go to the station?”

Hazel set down her fork and knife, an eyebrow quirked. “I have somewhere to be today.”

“Yeah, where?”

Her lips pursed. “I’ve been asked to join the Progressive Mothers.”

Elijah coughed. “You?” He gasped. 

“Elijah,” Bash scolded. “Your mother’s rolling in her grave.”

“We have a meeting today,” Hazel continued, ignoring the young man’s outburst.

“Of course. Elijah can keep an eye on his sister for a couple hours.”

“I--” Elijah began to object. 

“Give the woman a day off! She took over your chores just last week so you could go off with that girl in Charlottetown and do God knows what.”

Hazel pointed a strong finger at Elijah. “And we’ll talk about that,” she warned, standing from the table. “I’ve got to get going.”

Bash set down his spoon. “Me, too.” 

The mother and son walked to the doorway, putting on their hats and jackets before departing, each heading in their separate directions.

Bash enjoyed the peace of the solo drive to the station, arriving ahead of his brother’s train. He leaned back in his seat, pulling his hat down over his eyes. Soon, sleep found him. 

He was disturbed, too soon, by a voice calling his name and a hand shaking his shoulder.

“Sebastian! Bash! I promise he’s not normally like this. Bash! Wake up!” He felt his hat being pulled away.

A moment passed before his eyes adjusted to the light. Standing at the foot of his carriage was his brother, looking much older since he had last seen him the previous spring. Standing a few feet back was a peculiar red haired woman who did not fix her gaze on either of the brothers but instead craned her neck, looking around the station and to the woodlands beyond. 

“Sorry,” Bash muttered. “I didn’t get any sleep.”

“That’s all right,” Gilbert said, clasping Bash’s hand. 

“We better get going. I left Delphine with Elijah.” Bash looked around the rest of the empty station, trying to avoid catching the eye of the girl. “Where’s the other moke?”

“Who?” Gilbert asked. 

“Your telegram said you were bringing a friend home,” Bash reminded. “Where is he?”

At this, the young woman’s attention jumped straight to the brothers, her mouth opening in surprise.

Gilbert put a hand to the back of his neck. “Yeah, well, you see, Bash--”

“Oh, God,” Bash said. He pointed his chin towards the girl. “This is the moke?”

“This is Anne,” Gilbert replied with a sheepish smile, stepping back to put a guiding hand to her waist. 

“You couldn’t have made that clear in the telegram?” Bash chastised. “And you couldn’t have told me sooner you had a girl? What kind of brothers are we, anyway?”

“You said he wouldn’t mind,” Bash heard the woman mutter to his brother. 

“I don’t mind,” Bash confirmed. “But I know a few people who will.”

The girl’s face fell. “Gilbert...” she muttered.

“Who’s going to mind?” Gilbert demanded. 

“Has your time in Toronto made you forget the force of nature that is Rachel Lynde?” Bash replied. “You think you can have a young lady alone in a house with a bunch of unmarried men? You’ll never hear the end of it.”

Gilbert dismissed this. “Hazel’s there,” he reminded. “It’s fine.”

“There’s the second person who’ll mind!” Bash said. “You know how many times Elijah’s tried to have his girl over? Poor moke. She’s not getting by Hazel until you have rings on both your fingers and a single last name between the two of you.”

The young people blushed. 

“Well she’s here,” Gilbert announced, helping Anne into the carriage. “Hazel can do her worst.”

“Don’t try her,” Bash muttered.

He listened to his brother talk the girl’s ear off the entire drive back to Avonlea. He never heard her respond. As a flock of Barry’s sheep Bash turned his head back into the carriage to see his brother fawning over the oblivious girl, who still craned her neck towards the canopy.

“The White Way of Delight,” she breathed.

“What was that?” Gilbert asked politely.

“I’ve been here before,” she said, her expression mortified. She looked over her right shoulder. “And there: that’s--”

“Barry’s Pond?” Bash offered, catching Gilbert’s eye and raising an eyebrow. 

“That’s what they say,” she said quietly. “But I call it the Lake of Shining Waters.”

“You’ve been here before?” Bash questioned.

“Yes,” she said. “I was brought here by a woman, sent by a brother and sister, who were looking for a child to adopt from the asylum in Nova Scotia. But there had been a mix up....” Her voice was little more than a whisper. “They sent me back.”

Dispossessed of the necessary energy to handle that conversation, Bash turned his attention back to the road, wondering if he were some sort of magnet for half-grown orphans. 

As the carriage ascended the final hill into the orchard, Gilbert stood, pulling blossoms from the apple trees and offering them to Anne. She accepted them blindly, then pointed to the fields beyond.

“There,” she said. “That’s the house I was taken to.”

“Green Gables?” Gilbert questioned. “The Cuthberts sent for you?”

“The  _ Cuthberts _ ,” Anne said loudly, dropping her flowers. “I had tried so hard to forget. I was  _ so  _ close to being allowed to be.”

“To be what?” Bash asked, though quickly regretted interfering in the girl’s train of thought. She looked at him queerly.

“To  _ be _ ,” she said plainly. 

Bash looked to his brother. “All right,” he said.

“Sebastian!” Hazel stepped out of the house, Elijah following lazily behind. “What is this?”

“Hope you’re ready,” Bash muttered. 

“Hello, Hazel!” Gilbert said brightly. “Have you been well?”

“Where’s the other boy?” She asked sharply. “Who’s she?” Hazel pointed a thumb towards Anne.

Looking a bit jolted, Anne stepped forward. She wore a careful smile. “Hello, ma’am. And hello to you, too!” She waved to Elijah, who stood leaning in the doorway, an incredulous look on his face. “It’s so nice to meet Gilbert’s family.” 

“Who are you?” Elijah called.

“I’m Anne Shirley,” she said loudly. “You must be Elijah.”

“Yeah, but I mean something more like what the hell are you doing here?”

“Elijah!” Bash and Hazel scolded in unison.

Anne ignored this. “You have the most wonderful orchard. Is it so spectacular in every season? I have a distinct feeling it wears December well.”

Gilbert smiled brightly at this while the other three shared a sideways glance. 

“This girl can’t stay here,” Hazel said, shaking her head. 

“I don’t understand,” Gilbert said. “What’s so wrong with this? You’ll be here, Hazel--”

“I can’t sit around and chaperone you two all day,” Hazel argued.

“I thought you were a progressive mother now,” Elijah called, taking a large bite from an apple. 

“I know how young people are when they’re courting,” Hazel began. “They’re just waiting for the moment their chaperone turns their back, and I’m telling you boys…” She waved a finger at Elijah and Gilbert. “Not under my roof!”

“Oh, we’re not courting!” Anne said. Bash looked to his brother: it would appear this was perhaps news to Gilbert.

He was quick to recover. “If not here, then  _ where  _ do you propose Anne should stay?” He was confident that in their innless town there would be no other option.

“Mrs. Lynde says the Cuthberts are looking for boarders,” Elijah offered.

Gilbert looked on desperately. “Whose side are you on?” 

“Listen,” Elijah called from his perch in the entryway. “You’ve been gone a long time and I’ve been fending for myself here. If I don’t get to have Lulu here, you shouldn’t get to have Anne.”

“Anne shouldn’t have to go to the Cuthberts,” Gilbert argued. “She came all this way on the understanding that she would be staying where I was staying.”

“Well she should have known better,” Hazel said flippantly. “Honestly, what young lady doesn’t know this isn’t appropriate?”

Anne looked at the woman defiantly then turned on her heel and began to walk back down the drive. Immediately Gilbert was following her. 

“Anne,” he said, walking backwards so he could look at her. “This doesn’t change anything. You can stay-”

“I don’t want to stay where I’m not wanted,” she said quickly.

“You are wanted,” he told her. “Look, Hazel can say she’s in charge all she wants, but Bash and I own the house and we don’t turn people away.”

And so it was with great reluctance that Hazel assisted Gilbert in preparing the guest bedroom for Anne. Breakfast the next morning was tense, a silent battle of wills being waged between Gilbert and Hazel. Uncomfortable, Anne was quick to excuse herself. She pulled at Gilbert’s sleeve and soon the two were nearly falling over one another as they chased each other through the front yard. 

Once they were clear of the house, Hazel said: “You need to do something about this, Sebastian. That girl can’t stay here.”

With a sigh, he replied: “I know.”

With hat in hand, Bash knocked on the door of Green Gables. 

“Sebastian,” Marilla Cuthbert greeted him, surprised at his appearance. 

“How are you Marilla?” He asked as she allowed him through the door. “I think I’ve found a boarder for you if you’re still interested.”

Her eyes narrowed, sceptical. “I suppose we are,” she told him. “Who is it?”

“Gilbert brought someone home from Toronto,” Bash explained, taking a seat in the parlor. 

“Do you not have room for the boy up there?” Marilla asked, taking her spot opposite him.

“No, we have plenty of room for one more boy,” Bash said. “That’s the thing, though: Gilbert’s brought home an Anne.”

“A girl?” she asked. “Are they… courting? Or sweethearts? I don’t know what the kids say these days.”

“Oh, I’d say she’s his sweetheart. Not so sure he’s hers.” 

Marilla nodded along, though any understanding was feigned.

“And you just need a place for her to stay? While the two… come to an understanding?”

“Honestly, I have no idea what she’s doing here,” Bash began. “They’ve been attached at the hip since they got off the train yesterday. But she needs a place to stay, whether it makes any sense or not.”

“All right,” Marilla said. “We can give her a comfortable room and a reasonable rate--”

“There’s something you should know about her, though, Marilla,” he warned. “She says she, uh, knows you and Matthew.”

“And how is that?” Marilla asked, feeling a bit unnerved at this.

“She says she had been an orphan in Nova Scotia, that she stayed at Green Gables for a time and was, um, sent back.”

Marilla felt the blood drain from her face. “A little red haired creature?”

Bash nodded. “She told us at breakfast that she’s ‘sure the orchard positively sings at sunrise,’ does that ring any bells?”

“But…” Marilla found herself looking about the room. “This is too astonishing of a coincidence. How did she find Gilbert?”

“I don’t know,” Bash said. “Gilbert just says he met her at a New Year’s party.”

“This sounds very…” She stopped herself, her brother coming through the door.

“Sebastian,” Matthew Cuthbert called out from the kitchen. “Doing well?”

“Well enough,” he replied. 

“Sebastian says he found us a boarder,” Marilla said. “But… well you should sit down, Matthew.”

A half an hour later and Bash and the Cuthbert siblings were rallying up the hill towards the orchard, headed for the house. Halfway up, they heard a voice call out.

“Bash?”

They turned to the left to see Gilbert and the girl lounging in the grass beneath an ancient apple tree. Gilbert moved quickly to remove a crown of flowers from his head. The girl flung it back at him. He stood and began to approach the trio.

“What’s going on?” Gilbert asked, though it would seem only two of the three heard him. Matthew Cuthbert poured his full attention on the young woman who remained beneath the apple tree.

“Anne,” he said. 

Gilbert turned around to see. Anne stood behind him, her lips set in a stiff line as she attempted to hide her emotions. 

“Hello, Mr. Cuthbert,” she said diplomatically. “It’s a pleasant day, don’t you agree?”

“Oh, Anne,” Marilla Cuthbert sighed from beside Bash. 

“Miss Cuthbert,” Anne said tersely. 

“Anne,” Matthew said once more. “Where did you go?”

“Oh,” she said dismissively. “Here and there.”

Mr. Cuthbert began to approach Anne and Gilbert saw as her posture stiffened. “I went looking for you. I couldn’t find you anywhere.”

“What?”

“We saw we made a terrible mistake. I tried to bring you home.”

Gilbert saw understanding dawn on Anne’s face, followed closely by horror and then immense sadness.

“You wanted me back?” She nearly whispered. 

“We wanted you,” Marilla called out. They saw Anne’s face waver. 

“How am I supposed to live with that?” Anne demanded.

“I’m sorry?” Matthew asked. 

“I’ve spent my life doing things which I  _ hated _ because you accused me of being a thief! My childhood has been washed away with the flood waters before it even had a chance to root itself into the soil! Was I meant to forgive you at thirteen? I have trouble forgiving you now at twenty.”

Marilla came then. “Listen here, I am very sorry for accusing you of theft and I hoped very much to bring you home. When it became clear that we weren’t going to find you, I prayed every night for your safety. And for forgiveness.” 

Anne considered this and then looked to Matthew.

“I wanted you for a daughter,” he said sadly.

“You did?” Anne asked.

“I did.”

Soon she was in the man’s arms, tears streaming down her face. Slowly, Marilla Cuthbert joined in the embrace.

The two brothers were not entirely sure what they had witnessed. 

“Would you like to come back with us?” Matthew asked Anne.

“I’m sure I’m too old to be adopted now,” she told him, biting her lip. “But perhaps not too old to find family.” 

“You’ll come?” Marilla asked. Anne nodded.

“You don’t have to,” Gilbert said, approaching Anne. “You can stay here if you want.”

She gave him a shy smile. “I know.”

So Anne gathered her things and went back down the hill and passed the fields to Green Gables once more. Here, for once in her life, she was allowed to be. 

  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi guys,
> 
> It turns out there's probably going to be two more chapters, but only after I get my life together and write another essay and my thesis proposal :/  
> It might be a hot second before another update.
> 
> Hope you're well,  
> S


	4. Chapter 4

Anne could feel her heartbeat in every corner of her body, hear it pounding beneath her breast.

The minister had directed their attention to the book of Proverbs (though it was all the same to Anne: a month into her stay at Green Gables and she still revelled in the sound of the word ‘biblical,’ and, better than even that, ‘of biblical proportions’). 

“Lying lips are an abomination to the Lord.” It was as though his words rang out through the church, angry and stinging as a birch lash. Her skin prickled.

She remembered when she had been Violet Quinn, a devout Irish Catholic looking to join the sisterhood. She had learned to pray the rosary and say the Lord’s prayer and carried a Bible, though she never made it beyond Genesis, enchanted as though it were the most epic fairytale. She quite liked the motions of the Catholic Mass, the ceremony of it all, rhythmic like a choreographed dance. The concept of confession and forgiveness were also appealing, as she felt that her lies had been so numerous she was in need of something entirely cleansing. She once even stood before a priest in New Orleans, able to see his old green eyes through the grates in the metal, heard his quiet voice, first in French and then English when she did not respond, urging her towards confession. 

But she could not. She stood and left, apologizing the entire way to the street. 

Since then, she had had no experience with church since leaving the asylum at 13. She also had no experience with revealing herself, with a singular exception.

She often wondered what made her choose Gilbert as the soul to whom she would reveal herself. To whom she would make her confession. She recalled the nights she had tucked herself into bed early while the other girls in her boarding house still twittered like lovely birds in the room next door. She would look to the ceiling and whisper her good deeds. She would speak of the pet rabbit which she cherished in Massachusetts and how she had cared for it, the first creature that she had ever loved. She would appeal to the version of God which lived in her ceiling and heard her whispers that such a love counted for something and was a good deed in and of itself. She imagined a whisper telling her each night that, like all of her other lies, she left even the rabbit behind when necessity struck. 

But she would argue with that whisper.  _ Gilbert _ , she told it.  _ I am not so wretched for Gilbert. _

The breathy voice had a response for this as well.  _ A hoax _ , it told her.  _ You take from him, too. _

“Anne,” Marilla’s voice called out to her, sharp, from the seat next to her. “Are you paying attention to the sermon?”

Anne nodded vaguely. She worked to listen to the minister now. 

In an hour, it was all over. 

“She’s next door to a perfect heathen,” she heard Marilla whisper to her brother as they climbed back into their carriage. 

“Victor Hugo says ‘to love another person is to see the face of God,’” Anne blurted. “I think it’s true.”

Marilla pursed his lips. “See His face or not, you need to learn a thing or two about Him.”

“I wonder if I could ever know God,” Anne wondered as they drove away from the church. “It seems so peculiar that He would take such offense to someone simply feeling a prayer. Why does it always need to be said?”

“Well I suppose that when your time comes, you can ask him,” Marilla said. “But for now I think it’s best if you keep those sorts of questions to yourself.  _ Especially _ this afternoon, am I understood?”

“But Marilla,  _ surely _ everyone, the Barrys included, has wondered these sorts of things? What else is church for than to offer answers to questions which boggle the spirit?”

“I highly doubt the Barrys are so boggled as you are. But I mean it, Anne: best behavior. It would do you good to make friends with people your own age--” Marilla saw how Anne opened her mouth, ready to argue an already well-articulated point. “Young  _ ladies _ ,” Marilla specified.

“But there’s nothing very wrong with being friends with Gilbert. Why, I’m certain he was my first friend in the world and if it were up to you, Marilla, I would throw him off to sea!”

“She has a point, Marilla,” Matthew said from Anne’s left. “You do try to keep the fellow at arm’s length.”

“I have my reasons, Matthew,” Marilla reminded. “And it is so Anne can make up her mind about him in peace. If you have a young man about you every day of the week, I would think it would be impossible to know what you actually think of him.”

“Make my mind up about what?” Anne pushed. “Tell me you’re not back on your thoughts of engagement, Marilla, because I simply couldn’t bear it!”

“I only think,” Marilla said, putting her hands up in defense. “That it wouldn’t be so unusual if Gilbert Blythe were thinking about marriage at this stage in his life, and I don’t want you caught up in the wake of his eagerness if you don’t want to be.”

“Gilbert is just getting started with medical school,” Matthew said, his eyes well-focused on a cherry tree down the road. “And he thinks it’s real important that Anne goes to school. I can tell.”

“How can you tell?” Marilla questioned, her voice full of incredulity.

“He wants her to sit the Queens exam,” Matthew answered. “Told me himself.”

“When?” Marilla demanded.

“Why, it must have been just the other day. Saw him in town buying soap.”

“And why should I be pushed prematurely into the arms of a husband when I have finally found peace at Green Gables? It seems absurd that anyone should even slightly  _ hint  _ at a betrothal until every ounce of joy has been eaten up in the current epoch of a person’s life!”

“Anne,” Marilla chastised. “That’s quite enough flair-”

“Because as I see it, there’s no going back in this life!”

“Well that’s true enough, I reckon,” Matthew said as the Barrys’ home came into sight. “But Marilla’s right, Anne: it could get mighty lonely around here come September. Maybe it would be good to make a few more friends.” Anne frowned. 

“I hardly know how.”

The trio settled on the banks of the pond, rolling out a quilt and opening a picnic basket as the other families took their spots around them. Closer to the house, the Barry’s sat beneath a tent. A young woman in pale blue emerged on the arm of a red haired man.

“Is that Diana Barry?” Anne asked, gesturing towards the couple.

“Yes,” Marilla said. “And I believe that’s her fiance.” 

Anne scrutinized the pair. “Do you think they're very in love? Or just a bit in love?”

“I don’t really think there are degrees--”

“Oh, there certainly are!” Anne insisted. “I couldn’t bear to be loved just a bit, but I fear that’s probably going to be the lot that befalls me. That, or the fellow won’t be able to tell up from down and will confuse admiration of my imagination with ardour.” 

“Are you going to tell me you speak from experience?” 

“Marilla,” Matthew warned. “That’s an unkindness. We told Anne it doesn’t much matter what she’s gotten up to, since it was our fault she went away in the first place. I think we better remember that’s our policy.”

“That’s right,” Marilla agreed. “I’m sorry-”

“I think I will go try to find the other girls,” Anne said suddenly, rising to her feet. 

She crossed the wide lawn, eyes searching half for a gaggle of girls, half for Gilbert Blythe. She felt a surge of nerves when it was the ladies she found first. Setting her shoulders, she marched onwards towards them.

They stared as she approached. She set her face into what she hoped was a smile. “Hello,” she said sweetly. “I’ve been so eager to make your acquaintance since coming to Avonlea.”

It was the woman in yellow who answered. “Who are you exactly?”

“Oh!” Anne said, hands fluttering to smooth her skirt. “My name is Anne Shirley and I’ve recently come to live in Avonlea. I hardly know a soul yet, so you can imagine expanding my social circle has been among my utmost priorities. Along with acquainting myself with the wonderful wilderness you have here. Truly, you were all so blessed to have been raised among such beautiful flora and fauna. I’ve never been somewhere where the trees grew from the ground with such a quiet triumph-”

“I know you,” one of the blondes said. “You’re that wispy thing that Gilbert Blythe brought home from Toronto.”

Anne swallowed, working to maintain her expression. “I suppose I am,” Anne said. “Though I’m not so sure about wispy-”

“Wispy.”

“Wispy.”

“Wispy,” they confirmed. 

“Not so wispy,” said Diana Barry.

“But, anyway, I had hoped that you would allow me to join you this afternoon so that we could become acquainted.”

The women shared a look.

“Well-”

“Please sit,” Miss Barry said before any of the others could speak.

Anne took her spot on the blanket, a grateful smile on her face. She turned to the dark haired girl beside her.

“What should I call you?” Anne asked. The girl opened her mouth to speak but was cut short by the smallest blonde.

“Where are you from?” The girl said, her voice girlish.

“Well, it sounds like everyone already knows. I came with Gilbert from Toronto--”

“But is that where you’re from originally?” The woman in yellow asked. “Just sounds like a strange way of saying it.”

“Oh, well--”

“And are we supposed to believe that  _ you’re  _ engaged to  _ Gilbert Blythe _ ?” A woman in purple sneered. 

“I-” Anne saw the dark eyes of the girl sitting across from her open with surprise, then felt a familiar hand fall onto her shoulder.

“There you are, Anne,” Gilbert said. “You’ve met the girls?”

“I haven’t gotten their names yet,” Anne admitted, her voice quiet. Gilbert knelt down beside her. 

“Really? Well, what are you girls doing? Have you forgotten our Sunday school lessons and the ‘Avonlea welcome?’” Gilbert’s voice was teasing, but Anne wondered if he knew that introductions were unlikely to have gone straightforwardly if he had not come. She thought the tease might be a chastisement. “This is Tillie Boulter to your right. Beside her is Ruby Gillis, Diana Barry, Josie Pye, and Jane Andrews.”

Anne smiled, giving each girl a nod. Diana returned the gesture. 

“We were just asking your Anne where it is she came from,” Josie Pye said, her tone casually cruel.

Gilbert smiled. “Toronto,” he offered simply.

“What were you doing in Toronto, Anne? Were you a student at the university?” Asked Ruby Gillis eagerly.

“Well-”

“Are you going to be a lady doctor?”

“I mean, no--”

“Then how do you know each other.”

“We met at a party,” Gilbert told them. Anne turned to him. 

“Are you from Toronto originally?”

Anne’s mouth opened and then faltered, the lies that she needed nowhere to be found.

“Anne actually has quite the story,” Gilbert said with a chuckle, settling in and making himself comfortable. Anne’s breath caught. Could he be so clueless as to reveal her past? “And it starts with the first thing we knew we had in common.”

“What’s that?” Asked Diana.

“We’re both orphans,” he said plainly. “Anne grew up in an orphanage in Nova Scotia. When it was coming time for her to leave the orphanage, she heard of a potential relation: a great aunt living in Toronto. In the time I’ve known her, I’ve learned that Anne is up for nothing if not an adventure, so she went to see for herself. This aunt was suffering from a chronic illness and really had only the single ungrateful son who could not be bothered to look after her, so Anne took it on herself. She’s spent the last three or four years caring for her aunt until, this Spring, she passed away--”

“Well why did she come home with you?” Jane challenged.

“I’m getting there,” Gilbert told her. “It was actually at the aunt’s wake that I put two and two together: at my own father’s wake, Miss Cuthbert told me of an orphan she and Mr. Cuthbert had taken in that summer who they cared deeply for and regretted sending back to an  _ orphanage in Nova Scotia _ . A redhaired girl called Anne, she told me. I realized that my new friend Anne might have been this girl; afterall, Anne had told me she had once been to P.E.I. to be adopted. I thought this must be some sort of fate, so I invited Anne to come back with me.”

“So you’re not engaged, Gilbert?” Diana asked.

He smirked. “Not at this time.”

Anne’s brows pulled together. “What does that mean?” She asked him. 

He shrugged, moving to stand. “I’ll leave you ladies to it.” He put a hand to Anne’s shoulder again. “Come see me later?” She nodded. The girls watched him walk back to his own family.

“He was always such a sad, handsome boy,” Ruby commented.

“Was he so very sad?” Anne asked. 

“What’s it matter to you? You weren’t there,” Josie said.

“He’s my friend,” Anne said pointedly. “And I know that sadness can… linger.”

“He was very forlorn,” Diana said. “When his father died. He was all alone in that house for a while.”

“Until he left to work on the ship,” Tillie reminded. 

“Then he came home with that man,” Josie said with a roll of her eyes. “My parents still say it’s not right, even to this day.”

“What’s not right?” Ruby asked.

“That he’s brought all those black people to Avonlea.” Josie seemed to think it was obvious. “Perhaps it’s wrong to say it’s unnatural, but it’s certainly odd.”

“That’s cruel,” Anne found herself saying. “Do you have no idea what a blessing it is to find family after wandering the world alone? I hope that nothing like that ever befalls you, Josie Pye, but I wonder if you have the imagination to even begin to understand it.”

“Why do you talk like that?” Josie asked, her voice harsh.

Anne stood. “I don’t think you would make a very good friend,” she told the girl. 

“Who said anything about being  _ your  _ friend, Miss Shirley? I will say, speaking with you here has at least enlightened me as to what he sees in you: you’re as strange as he is.”

Anne felt her temper flare. “Gilbert’s not strange.” Her voice came like a warning. 

Josie looked to Jane with what was meant to be comical scepticism. “He is,” she assured. “And you are, too.”

“Take it back,” Anne hissed. 

“I won’t,” Josie said. “You’re a match made in heaven: poor orphaned freaks.”

“You are a wretched woman!” Anne told her. “You would be so lucky if Gilbert looked at you twice!” She turned on her heel to leave, kicking red dirt into the skirt of her dress. Mrs. Barry had emerged from the tent, looking on at the scene.

“Diana?” The woman called. But her daughter was hurrying to catch up with Anne. 

“Miss Shirley, I’m sorry for Josie,” Diana told her as the redhaired woman stomped away. “She deserved everything you said.”

“She did,” Anne agreed. “But I’ll never live this down.”

“Do you want me to try to smooth things over? At least with the other girls?”

Anne paused. “You would do that?”

Diana looked a bit surprised by her own offer. “I suppose I’ve been waiting half my life for someone to put Josie Pye in her place. It’s the least I can do for the soul who finally did it.”

“Oh, Miss Barry,” Anne sighed. “That’s remarkable! Thank you!”

“You can call me Diana,” she told Anne.

“Call me Anne.” 

Diana looked back to the girls. They were still fussing over Josie’s dress. “You should consider leaving,” Diana said gently. “I’m sorry.” She turned to go back to the group. Anne watched her leave, then turned herself.

Anne saw the Cuthberts, standing now like the rest of the families, looking towards the scene Josie Pye was making. She couldn’t bring herself to tell them she was the cause, not quite yet, and so determined she would continue on foot alone.

But she wasn’t alone for long.

“Where are you going?” Gilbert asked her as he took his place by her side. 

“Home,” she said breathlessly.

“Why?”

“Because I’m a high-tempered fool,” she told him.

“I’ll walk with you,” he replied. 

She stopped. “You’re not even going to ask me why I say that?”

“I saw you gave Josie what was coming to her,” he said, putting a hand on the small of her back to keep her moving along. “I think it’s smart that you’re going home, though.”

“And you don’t mind being seen with me now?” She questioned. “The town madwoman?”

He smiled widely. “Well  _ I  _ don’t think you’re mad.”

“What do you think I am, then?” She muttered.

“Spirited.” He gave her waist a squeeze with his hand. They had found their path through the woods now, the party no longer visible behind them. 

“Thank you,” she murmured.

“Hmm?”

“Thank you for giving me a story,” she told him. 

“I could hardly bring you here and then throw you to the wolves,” he said jokingly. 

“I mean it, though: you really helped me.”

“You really help me,” he said quietly, gaze fixed to the ground.

She was reminded of that sinister whisper.  _ A hoax. You take from him, too. _

She remained silent for the rest of the walk. His hand found her waist once more.

“Will you invite me in?” He asked cheekily as they approached the porch.

“Marilla would suffer heart palpitations if she knew I invited you in when no one else was home,” Anne said with a roll of her eyes. “She thinks we’re in the midst of a clandestine affair on the verge of romantic consummation and she is the only thing saving us from complete ruin.”

Gilbert stared. “I’ve always known Miss Cuthbert to be a wise woman,” he said. “Could it be that she sees something you don’t?”

“Gilbert Blythe, you have an imagination nearly as limitless as mine but you insist on putting it towards teasing.”

He reached out to her, taking one of her hands and raising it to his lips. “If you say so.”

That night, Anne lay awake, thinking how very competent a liar Gilbert Blythe was. All those times she had wondered if she had jipped him, was it actually that she had been the fool? Only, she couldn’t work out what he had to dupe her for. And there it was, that central question that filled her room like invisible smoke until she choked.

What did he want from her?

What did she want from him?

And then, like every day at midmorning, Gilbert crossed the property line. Today, his boots were polished and he wore his best suit. He’d worried vaguely as he dressed that morning if she would guess at what he had to say. He supposed she might, but that could not matter; summer was wearing thin and there was so much that had to be said. 

He had begun to rehearse his speech days ago, and he made last minute preparations on this walk as well.

“Anne,” he muttered to himself. “It’s not long before I need to leave for school, but I won’t-- no, I  _ can’t  _ go without revealing myself to you. Perhaps I should have been more forthright, and for that I can only apologize-- I can only hope for your forgiveness. I--”

“Hey, Gilbert!” Anne’s voice sounded strong and clear from across the yard. She came then on horseback, Matthew Cuthbert riding alongside her. “Look!” She called, smiling widely as she gestured to herself astride the creature.

“She’s a natural,” Mr. Cuthbert said proudly. “Wouldn’t have believed this was only her third ride.” 

Anne guided her horse towards a fence post about 40 feet away from Gilbert, hopping off the mare in a single swift movement. 

“Uh, Anne.” Gilbert’s attention was drawn to the older man as he spoke. “Maybe you should head in and change now.”

“Why?” Gilbert saw then what she wore. 

It was not the first time he’d encountered a woman in trousers, his old teacher Miss Stacey had a tendency of riding her motorized bicycle in her pair. Gilbert figured Anne must have begun to entertain the idea sometime after she had begun her private lessons with the woman. It seemed, however, to be an entirely different thing to have Anne stand before him in a pair.

“I just think that maybe, uh, someone like Gilbert would expect to see you in your, uh, normal clothing.”

“Why?” Anne repeated. “I’m dressed just the same as him.”

“Well-”

“Besides: Gilbert doesn’t mind,” Anne said. “Do you, Gil?”

“I-” But she had not truly wanted an answer. She had quickly closed the distance between them, grabbing hold of his arm and tugging him along towards the woods.

“We’re losing daylight!” She said loudly.

“Are you sure you don’t want to change?” Gilbert said meekly. He reached a hand to her hair. “It looks like you’ve got some hay? And leaves? Maybe you’d like to--”

She swatted his hand away with a laugh. “Leave them in!” She instructed. “It’s obvious I’m meant to be a druid today!” 

Her thick-soled boots found their way through the forest, cutting and weaving through the brush until Gilbert heard the sounds of a running stream. She perched herself on a large overhanging rock. He watched as she removed her shoes and stockings and allowed her feet to dangle into the water. She looked over her shoulder, back at him, and gestured him forward. 

“I’ve spoken with Miss Stacey,” she said as he took his place beside her. “She thinks I’ll be able to attend school after the harvest. Can you believe it, Gilbert? Real school. It’s so very nearly perfect. Of course, I say nearly perfect as I am rather old…” She turned to him suddenly. “Do you think I could pass as 15?” She turned her head to the left and then the right, offering him multiple angles to assess.

He was taken aback by the question. “I thought the point of coming to Avonlea was to tell the truth? You don’t need to lie about your age here if they’ve agreed to take you on at the school as is.”

“Well the school board hasn’t made up its mind yet,” Anne admitted. “Marilla says Rachel Lynde will put in a good word. But nothing’s guaranteed.” He did not respond, still thinking about what it would mean if Anne began to pass as a 15 year old. She scrutinized his expression. “Gilbert, are you all right?”

He took a steadying breath. “I wanted to talk to you about something important today.”

“Well, go on,” she encouraged.

Despite all his rehearsing, he could not find the words. They remained there a few moments, silent and still until her face paled. “Oh…” she said. “Oh, Gilbert…”

“What?” 

“I can read you like a book,” she breathed. “How astonishing…”

“What is it?” He demanded, voice urgent.

“I can see it now,” she said quietly, shaking her head before looking towards the canopy above where small patches of gentle blue shined through in patches. “Am I a monster?” 

“What?” He took her hands. “Absolutely not! You are… the most wonderful woman I’ve ever met!”

He wore a smile, one which he desperately hoped she would reciprocate, but instead her face was serious. “How can you know for sure, Gilbert?” She asked. “Haven’t you ever wondered, after all the lies and stories I’ve told, if I’ve told you one, too?”

His brows pulled together, a mixture of shock and confusion. “No, of course I haven’t--”

“Is that wise?” She demanded. “How can you be so sure?” 

“If you’ve swindled me, too, then so be it!” He declared. “I don’t care. I’ll take the scraps of you--”

“Don’t say that, Gilbert,” she warned. “You’re better than the scraps.” 

“Anne-”

“I know you’re fond of me-”

“I am more than fond of you!” He insisted. “Everyday, I feel more…”

“Gilbert…”

“Do you truly not feel anything for me?” It was as though he were speaking to himself aloud.

“I… I feel!” She did not elaborate on this point. “But you have to see my perspective: all of the men before I ever met you, they really did believe I was the one.” Her voice was gentler now. “But I wasn’t.

He stood then, feeling equally pathetic and angry. “And you think that’s the case here?”

“You’re upset with me,” she said quietly, staring into the stream. Anne looked to him then. She wore a look of sincerity he’d only seen on her once, on her birthday at the fountain when she’d told him that he was her best friend. “Please, won’t you sit back down? I want to explain something to you.”

Breathing heavily, Gilbert nodded once and took his seat, this time a careful distance away from Anne.

“I… I have dreams,” she said. “I have different types of dreams. I have the ones that are reasonably attainable: to find a position with a gentleman who won’t lock me in a broom cupboard to keep me to himself, a new frock, daffodils in April… I have dreams that I hope for, but seem close to impossible. To write. To write  _ well _ . To maybe publish or teach or do something that I can be proud of. Then there are dreams that  _ are  _ impossible: to wake up one day in a world where I had parents who had never died, who had vocations and sent me to school and taught me manners and showed me how to exist. For so long, that was the dream that could never be…”

“But not anymore?” He prompted her. 

“Well, it still is,” she said with a sad smile. “But there’s more now.” She looked at him then, tears welling in her blue-gray eyes. “There would be unfathomable magic in loving you. You’re kind, and what greater compliment can a person bestow? Though I understand it’s a lesser compliment, I should still tell you that you’re far too handsome for your own good. But I am--” She looked away then. “I’ve told so many lies. I’m not a  _ lady,  _ Gilbert. I would make a  _ terrible _ wife.”

His heart beat rapidly. “Anne.”

“You should guard your heart,” she advised him, hand wiping at her eyes. Slowly, he reached a hand to her face. She thought his hand felt cold against her face.

“Too late,” he said simply.

“Gilbert,” she put her hands on either side of his face. “You have to understand me: there are skeletons in my closet which will never leave me be. I feel it so acutely, how can you not see?”

“I see,” he told her. “I was there in the park that day when Carlisle…” He trailed off. “I know about the skeletons. What you haven’t told me is why I should leave you to face them alone when I just don’t want to?”

She wondered if her face revealed her amazement. Where, in his 22 years, did he learn to speak like this? As though there was nothing left to consider? 

“Are you all right?” He asked her. She realized then that her breathing had become heavy. 

“Well then what is it you propose?” She demanded.

“I propose,” he said simply.

She felt herself sway on her knees. “You’ll have to forgive me,” she whispered. “Only I’ve never quite faced such a proposal.”

He chuckled once. “What’s it normally like?”

“Sometimes rather flamboyant and flattering,” she said. “Once he just left a ring on a coffee table and told me he’d set a date for a month from Sunday.”

“Oh,” Gilbert said. “Well, I could say more if you’d like? And I always intended that you’d have a say in the ‘when.’”

“Oh,” Anne said. “How odd that that’s an improvement.”

“Well, Anne,” Gilbert said, finally easing back. “Say yes and you’ll have all that and more.” The two actually laughed. “To be more serious,” he continued. “You’re my best friend. I could want no one but you.”

“Truly?” She questioned. “You’re very sure?”

“Yes, very,” he told her.

“I’ve never loved anyone before,” she whispered. 

“Do you think you love me?” His question hung in the air around them, like warm breath on a winter’s morning.

“I do,” she mouthed. She looked back towards the forest’s canopy. “How remarkable!”

He scrambled for his pocket pulling a sapphire set in a golden band. “Will you take this?” He asked her. 

Hand shaking, she took it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone! I hope those who are still reading are enjoying this story. I was wondering if in general you guys prefer longer chapters, around 5,000 words, or more frequent, shorter updates? I have tended towards shorter in the past but I'd love to know what's better for you <3
> 
> Happy New Year!


	5. Chapter 5

“I won’t lie to you: this is highly unusual, Miss Cuthbert.” The men of the Avonlea School Board were all the same, toeing the same lines, concurring the same points. “The girl you want us to admit into our school is no girl at all, but a young woman.”

“I understand that,” Marilla responded. “But I only wish to point out that my brother and I have always supported the education of Avonlea’s young people, giving generously throughout the years, and now that we have a young person who needs educating I think it’s only fitting that she be allowed to take her seat in the classroom.”

Anne sat sandwiched between Marilla and Rachel Lynde. She imagined herself the accused in some horrible crime, with the older women serving as her attorneys, seeking litigious justice on her behalf. Unfortunately for the accused, only one of her attorneys seemed to have any significant sway in this courtroom.

“But she’s not so young,” another man insisted.

“Gilbert Blythe was nearly 19 years old when he left the Avonlea schoolhouse,” Marilla reminded. 

Anne could feel Rachel Lynde jolt at this, a slow smile spreading across her face. Mrs. Lynde stood, circling the table and the men. 

“I’m sure you’ve all heard the news,” she began enticingly. “That Mr. Blythe has asked Miss Shirley--”

“Shirley-Cuthbert,” Marilla corrected.

“Miss Shirley-Cuthbert to marry him,” Mrs. Lynde said. 

“Yes,” they seemed to all sigh in unison. “But what is your point, Rachel?”

“Well I only think that since Mr. Blythe will be finished with his medical studies in a few short years, it wouldn’t be very unusual if he asked his sweetheart where it was she’d like to settle,” she suggested. “Perhaps Miss Shirley-Cuthbert, the future Mrs. Blythe, would be more inclined to reply with a simple ‘Avonlea, dear,’ if we were to afford her the benefit of an education. And wouldn’t it be something to have a doctor in town again?” There were murmurs across the table. “In my estimation, it’s been nearly two decades since we had such a chance at having a medical professional in our little hamlet. And, correct me if I’m wrong, wasn’t it all down to Dr. Ashton’s wife not feeling very welcome here?” 

More murmurs. Rachel Lynde took her seat again.

“But Gilbert wants to be a medical researcher,” Anne whispered to Mrs. Lynde. “Not a country doctor.”

“Hush, child,” Mrs. Lynde said from the corner of her mouth. “There’s no need for the truth now.”

The three women waited quietly while the men pronounced judgment.

“All right, Miss Shirley,” one said.

“Shirley-Cuthbert,” Marilla corrected once more under her breath.

“You may attend our school for one academic year so that you can prepare for your examinations,” one declared and the others nodded. “Or until the time of your marriage. Whichever comes first.”

Anne’s eyebrows pulled together, unable to comprehend how she would be less in need of an education should she decide to marry. Opening her mouth to make such a point, she was instead ushered out by Marilla and Rachel. 

“What will they do when they realize Gilbert’s not going to practice medicine here?” Anne asked the other two.

“Well that will be someone else’s problem.” Rachel laughed with glee. “You’ll be done at Queens before Gilbert’s fit to practice.” 

“Though perhaps it would be nice to have Gilbert as our doctor here in Avonlea,” Marilla commented. “You would be close to home.”

“Oh, I quite agree, Marilla,” Rachel said, reaching behind Anne’s back to pat her friend’s arm. “That’s exactly where a young couple needs to be in the early years of the marriage when the babies are coming.” 

“Well I rather think that won’t happen in the very early years-”

“Oh, you’d be surprised, child,” Rachel said darkly. “I thought I was only going to have one or two. And do you know how many I had?” 

“Ten,” Anne mumbled, twisting the toe of her boot in the soil. 

“Ten!” Rachel agreed. “And I assure you, I was a  _ very  _ clever lass-”

“Yes, but Mr. Lynde wasn’t a doctor,” Anne said shortly, walking ahead on the path.

“Anne!” Marilla called. “How do you know of such worldly things?”

“What did you think people thought of me, Marilla?” Anne said, more harsh than she intended. “A lonesome orphan somehow scraping by? Why, I would say a dozen different women in a certain profession mistook me as being of the same sort and gave me all sorts of advice.”

Satisfied by the shocked looks on both of Rachel and Marilla’s faces, Anne turned towards the path once again.

“That is  _ shocking,  _ Marilla!” She heard Rachel say from ten feet behind her. 

“Yes, I agree,” said Marilla. “But we have to understand whatever she knows is not her fault--”

“Whose fault is it?” Rachel demanded.

There was a pause. “Mine.”

Anne stopped walking. She turned back to the other two. “Oh, Marilla,” she said. “It is a weight off my shoulders to hear you say that.” She closed the gap between them. “Since I was 16, I’ve lived as though… well, I hope you never know. But it’s filled my heart with melancholy and guilt, and what you’ve just said is something of an absolution.”

Rachel closed ranks. “What did you do?” She hissed. 

“Anne,” Marilla said, putting a hand to the young woman’s face. “You don’t have to tell me or Matthew how you lived, but I must insist that it would be… unfair to marry Gilbert if he doesn’t know--”

“Very unfair!” Rachel echoed.

“He knows,” Anne said.

“And?” Both women pushed.

“He thinks it’s nothing that can’t be forgiven. Or understood.”

“Yes, but he was always a liberal-minded lad,” Rachel insisted. “What is it that you did?” 

Anne wavered, unsure whether to kick dirt into her skirt as she had Josie Pye earlier in the summer, to walk away, or something in between.

“I told stories,” Anne said quietly. “That’s all.”

“Didn’t you promise Gilbert you’d go straight there to tell him how it went?” Marilla asked, though no such promise had been made. “Go on.”

“Thank you,” Anne mouthed before taking off in the direction of Gilbert’s orchard. 

The leaves had taken to a shade of rich gold. The harvest was in sight. Anne knew it would not be long before Gilbert was to leave for school, but instead of walking the half mile to his home, she found herself knocking on the Barrys’ door. She was directed upstairs where she found Diana in her stocking feet sitting on the edge of her bed. 

It was only the click of the closing door which drew Diana’s attention away from the nonspecific spot on her wall. 

“Anne,” the young woman said as the other girl took her seat beside her.

“I have marvelous news,” Anne said quietly. “I’ll be in school after the harvest. It’s all very official now.”

“That’s wonderful, Anne,” Diana replied, a flash of a smile crossing her face. 

“You don’t look like you’re feeling well,” Anne muttered, putting the back of her hand to her friend’s forehead. “You don’t have a fever. Is everything all right?”

At this inquiry, Diana paled. She inspected Anne’s face carefully, biting her lip for a moment before reaching some unknowable decision.

“I’ve been in a bit of a daze all day. Last night, Mother came to speak to me about something… unwholesome.”

“Unwholesome?” Anne repeated. “What could she have to say that’s--”

Diana shushed her, gesturing for her to be quiet so she could listen. The girls heard footsteps in the hallway pause, then wait thirty seconds by Diana’s door, and then walk on. 

“I shouldn’t tell you,” Diana said as though thinking aloud. “Perhaps you don’t already know. I would hate to be the one to put such base images into your head.”

“What do you mean by ‘base images?’” 

Diana’s eyes flashed to Anne’s engagement ring and then to her own. “Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad,” Diana mumbled. “You’ll be married soon, too.”

“What does anything have to do with marriage?” Anne asked, a laugh in her tone. 

“I’ve learned something dreadful,” Diana said seriously, eyes flashing to the closed door one more time. “My mother decided to tell me last night about the relations between a husband and wife.”

This took Anne aback. “You’re only just learning about that?”

The mood in the room changed. “You already knew?”

“Yes, of course,” Anne replied.

“Did Marilla tell you when you told her of your engagement?”

“Oh my, no. I think she would faint before saying a single thing.”

“Then where did you hear about it?” Diana questioned.

It was then that Anne realized she may have painted herself into a corner. “Oh, you know. Just around.”

“From who?” Diana pushed.

“Well there are all manner of folk in the world. Not everyone is so reticent to share what they know. There have just been some women who’ve told me bits and pieces throughout my life.” Anne attempted to appear casual.

“My mother says there’s little joy in it for women,” Diana said. “I can’t imagine why anyone would speak about such unpleasantness when they don’t have to.”

Anne frowned. “I’ve heard the same.” 

“Why do you think it has to be this way?” Diana wondered. “Why do you think we’re able to love but have no way of finding physical contentness?”

“I don’t think love factored in, at least for my sources,” Anne said.

“The women didn’t love their husbands?” Diana questioned. “None of them?”

“It’s safe to say that love for husbands didn’t factor into it for them.”

“What a queer way to say it,” Diana said, lying back in her bed. “Anne?”

“Yes?”

“Did these women  _ have  _ husbands?” Anne’s silence must have stood as confirmation. Diana shot up. “Oh my Lord!”

“Please, Diana-”

“Weren’t they worried they might end up…” Diana gestured to her stomach.

“They had ways of… keeping that at bay,” Anne said slowly. Diana jumped to her feet.

“There are ways?” Diana exclaimed. “Do you know them? Oh, Anne, you must tell me!”

“I mean, I don’t-- I’d hate to tell you the wrong thing, you see--”

Diana grabbed her friend’s hands and pulled them to her chin. “Anne, I’ve made a decision: I aspire to be a concert pianist, but… also a wife, and I simply need time! If children come, there is so little time!”

“It does seem senseless,” Anne said. “That people are meant to embrace both marriage and potential parenthood at the exact same moment. Isn’t one tremendous adventure enough at a time?”

“Yes!” Diana agreed. “Oh please, Anne…”

“I really don’t know enough to say, Diana,” Anne admitted with a sigh. “Just bits and pieces.”

Diana put her head in her hands. “What a dreadful business. Somehow it’s worse that Fred is such a sweetheart.”

“Why is it worse?”

“I hate the idea of having unpleasant memories with him,” Diana explained. 

“Is it so horrible?” Anne asked, aghast.

“Mother says it’s something you just have to get on with.”

“Does it hurt?” 

“Oh, yes,” Diana said. “She says that’s one of the reasons that mothers discourage their daughters from these types of relations before marriage: might as well put it off as long as possible.”

Anne thought about this a moment. “That sounds rather suspicious…”

“What do you mean?”

“Could it be she’s telling you it’s no fun to keep you from doing it?” Anne asked.

Diana’s jaw dropped in understanding. “Do you think? But how are we to know? How can we…” The girl bluthered a few moments more while Anne thought.

“There’s no way to know,” Anne concluded. “It’s all a secret until the moment it isn’t, and then it’s all too late and you’re married to the fellow and maybe there’s a baby on the way already.”

Diana took a few deep breaths. “But what if one of us found out?”

Anne looked at her. “Are you crazy?” She asked.

“We could!” Diana insisted. “We have fellows… fiances! We could… we could seduce them!”

“Diana!” 

“It can’t be so very difficult--”

“Are you insane?” Anne repeated. 

Diana took Anne’s hands once more. “It just has to be one of us, then that person can tell the other--”

“It can’t be me!” Anne insisted. “My reputation is already precarious!”

“But Anne, you’re so much better suited to it!” Diana said. 

“How so?”

“So many ways… Gilbert is your neighbor, which is very convenient! And you only have two other people in your house, while for me there are eight if you include the servants. Plus you say you know something about… prevention of unwanted consequences. And Gilbert, he’s going to be a doctor, so I’m sure he knows even more--”

Anne scoffed. “Gilbert doesn’t know anything about that--”

Diana’s face twisted in confusion. “Surely you don’t think young men are saints until they’re married?”

“What are you saying?” Anne asked, face paling. “You think Gilbert--”

“I wouldn’t be surprised, is all I’m saying,” Diana said. “Oh Anne, I didn’t mean to upset you. I hadn’t dreamt that you wouldn’t have considered this a possibility.”

Anne felt her eyes well with angry tears. “I swear, if he did… how wretchedly unfair!” She was nearly yelling.

“Diana?” A man’s voice, Mr. Barry’s, perhaps, called from down the hall.

“We’re all right, Father!” Diana called back.

For fear of getting Diana in trouble, Anne worked to calm herself. “But he’s quite religious, perhaps he didn’t feel it would be in line with his ethics--”

“Anne, men don’t worry about that when they’re caught up in the moment.”

“Are you trying to drive me to madness, Diana?” Anne said with a sad hiccup.

“I just… I think it’s important to be realistic.” 

“I’ve been so careful…” Anne sobbed. “I was careful never to linger where I shouldn’t, and to never be alone with any of them… and I was such a homely child, I never dreamed that I would ever find my romantic ideal. But still, I tried so hard to make sure  _ nothing ever happened _ . I thought, it will be only true love that will pluck a kiss from my lips--”

“What?”

“And this is how I’m repaid? What a horrible day, Diana.” With that, Anne fell into Diana’s pillows and wept. 

The brunette rubbed her friend’s back. “Men are such unromantic creatures.”

“They are!” Anne said, voice muffled by the pillows. 

An hour later, Anne arrived home, face swollen from crying, eyes painful and head aching. 

It was Matthew who saw her first, perched as he was on the front porch, cleaning his boots.

“I heard your good news, Anne,” he called as she walked up the drive. “I’m going to head into Carmody tomorrow to get you what you’ll need for school.” It was then that he was able to get a good look at her. “What happened?” He asked urgently, stepping off the porch to meet her.

“Men are wicked creatures,” she said dryly. 

“What happened?” He repeated, lifting her limbs and circling her, looking for wounds. “Did someone hurt you?”

“Not physically!” She replied, voice shrill. “But I’m devastated!”

She ascended the steps and moved to open the door.

“Did… did Gilbert, um… is your engagement-- has the understanding between the two of you changed?” He asked, following her to the stairs.

“What?”

“Has he done something to upset you? Do I… should I go have a talk with the boy?”

“He’s upset me greatly! Men are rakes!” Anne told him as she made for her bedroom door. “Please, Matthew: I just want to sleep.”

Anne’s bedroom door closed slowly, shutting Matthew Cuthbert out. And where was Marilla? Still taking tea with Rachel. Matthew knew what was left for him to do. He walked to his own bedroom, washing up as quickly as he could and donning his best clothes. He knew Anne would have called this a solemn occasion, one which required special dress. 

Matthew crossed his property, ducking under the fence which had long separated Green Gables from the Blythes’ apple orchard. 

It was a long moment of hesitation before he raised his hand to knock. It was the other young fellow, Mary’s Elijah, who answered. There was a silence.

“Uh, hello?” Elijah said. “Do you need something?”

“Well, I, uh, was hoping I could come in--”

“We’re in the middle of having our tea, and Hazel hates unexpected company-- she only makes the exact amount of food, see. You think you could come back in an hour?”

“I have to… I mean I must insist that I, well, speak to Gilbert.”

“You insist?” Elijah questioned, incredulous that shy Matthew Cuthbert, of all people, should choose such bold language. 

“Yes,” Matthew said, “I insist.”

Elijah considered that a moment, before calling over his shoulder: “Gilbert!”

“What?” Matthew could hear Gilbert from another room. 

“I don’t know, but you’re not going to like it,” Elijah said as the other man approached. 

“Mr. Cuthbert,” Gilbert said, offering the older man his hand to shake. Matthew did not take it. “Is everything all right? Is something the matter with Anne?”

Matthew nodded. “There is something the matter with Anne and I’d like to talk with you about it, young man.”

Gilbert’s eyebrows knitted together in confusion. He invited Matthew in, passing through the kitchen on their way to the parlor.

“What did you do?” Matthew heard Sebastian hiss.

“I haven’t done anything,” Gilbert replied.

“Oh, that’s enough of that,” Matthew said, not bothering to take a seat on the couch. “I think it’s time you were a man and owned up to whatever it is that’s happened.”

The rest of the family crowded the entryway to the parlor now. 

“I’m sorry, Mr. Cuthbert: I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Gilbert said.

“Why, it couldn’t have been more than a couple of hours ago. Anne came home, face all red. She’d been crying, is what I’m saying! Tells me you’ve upset her. Devastated her, that’s what she says. I want to know what it’s all about.” Matthew tried to appear intimidating, to lackluster results. 

“Sir, I haven’t seen Anne since yesterday--”

“A likely story!”

“It’s true,” Bash offered. “Blythe’s been out in the orchard with me all day. We’ve got a family of raccoons that’s been climbing the apple trees. We’re trying to find a way to deal with them.” 

“Oh,” Matthew said. 

“Then what does it mean, she’s devastated?” Hazel asked from the other room. All eyes turned once more to Gilbert.

“I really don’t know!” He said. 

Bash took a seat in an armchair. “Has someone told her something about you, Blythe? Something she wouldn’t like to hear?”

Elijah smirked. “Have you done something bad, Gilby?”

Gilbert glared at him. 

“I haven’t don’t anything,” Gilbert said once more. “I was just about to go pick her some flowers and invite her up for dinner--”

Elijah turned to his sister, mimicking vomiting. The little girl laughed. 

“Elijah, smarten up,” Hazel warned. “And you,” she pointed to Gilbert. “I don’t believe you’re so innocent.”

“I didn’t--”

“Oh, I heard you the first three times. I just don’t believe it. Why’s a young girl crying if you’ve been on your best behavior?”

“What do you mean, Ma?” Bash asked, voice weary.

“You know what they say: gossip lies nine times and tells a half truth the tenth. I think she’s heard a half truth and it’s upsetting her.”

“There’s nothing she would have heard,” Gilbert muttered. “Not here in Avonlea.”

“What?” Matthew said.

“Oh, Blythe…”

“They were a long time ago--”

“ _ They _ ?” Bash demanded. “There was more than one?”

“A long time ago! Before I ever met her!” Gilbert insisted. There was silence for a long moment.

“Well,” Hazel said, crossing her arms. “Does she want to call off the engagement, Mr. Cuthbert?”

“ _ What?”  _ Gilbert’s voice was loud. He shifted in his seat, clearly anxious. “Why would she do that? She wouldn’t do that--”

“I wouldn’t blame her,” Hazel commented.

“Is she?” Gilbert looked to Mr. Cuthbert. 

“I don’t know, lad,” the man said softly. “But I have a mind to tell you, it’s not gracious to let a girl learn about her beau’s, uh, indiscretions from someone else. It’s real shameful, I say.”

Gilbert hung his head. 

“She’s been through a lot, my Anne,” Matthew commented. “Hate to see her hurt more now that she’s found a family.”

“I’m sorry,” Gilbert muttered. 

“It’s her you should be saying that to,” Matthew told him. The young man nodded and, together, they rose to their feet and began the walk to Green Gables.

Opening the door, they heard soft voices coming from the floor above. Matthew led Gilbert to the stairs, halting once they’d reached the second floor landing.

“You don’t know anything for sure, Anne,” Marilla Cuthbert’s voice sounded from the end of the hall. Anne’s bedroom door rested slightly ajar. 

“Diana says all men are like this,” Anne sniffled. “Taking liberties before they’re married. I couldn’t bear it if it were true, Marilla.”

“Bear it or not, you still need to learn if it’s true. Then you make a decision.”

Matthew coughed from his spot in the hall. Marilla looked out, seeing the two men waiting.

“It looks like that time is here, Anne.” Marilla stood then, joining Matthew and Gilbert in the hallway before Anne could ask questions. She stood in front of Gilbert a moment, searching his face for something of her John. 

“The door stays open, Gilbert,” Marilla instructed. She swept past him, closing the door behind her to her own bedroom. 

“Gilbert?” Anne said quietly from her bed. 

“It’s me,” Gilbert said, pushing her door open further so he could pass through.

“No,” she said. “I’m not ready to face this yet.”

“Please, Anne-”

“How could you?” She whispered.

“Who told you?” He asked.

“Oh my Lord,” she whimpered, chest shaking. “It’s true!”

“What?” He questioned, seating himself at the foot of her bed. “You… you didn’t know for sure?”

She ignored this. “How could you?”

“Anne, it was… it was before I ever met you, I swear. It was nothing--”

“Why would you… indulge in nothingness?” She nearly spit, obviously disgusted with his attempts to placate her. “Oh, I wish it was with great love. Something tragic, something with meaning. I could maybe bear it then.” 

“What do you mean, bear it?” He asked. “What are you saying?”

“You know, I’d read in a book once, many years ago, that we’re so deprived of words adequate enough to express our love to a soul mate, and that’s why we have physical bodies, with… other ways of showing it. A compensation, a way of ensuring that only one person knows what they mean to you.” Gilbert watched as her face twisted in anger. “And I… but you…” She looked at him then. “You haven’t even kissed me yet, after a month of engagement. I thought that was just your way, that you were rather conservative. I thought: oh, it’s a miracle someone so upright will have me at all. How gracious of him to have forgiven me! But what a joke that is! I’ve done nothing, but from the sounds of it, you’ve done everything.”

Gilbert’s jaw clenched at the accusations. “What do you mean,” he repeated. “Bear it?”

Her face, once so furious, smoothed over. “There’s no justice in being a woman,” she said, lip quivering. “How am I supposed to move forward now that I know this?”

Understanding overtook him. “Are you calling off our engagement?” He breathed.

She took a moment. He was unsure if she was considering her decision, or unable to bring herself to say her answer. 

“I just want you to leave my bedroom,” she told him finally. “I don’t know how I could ever bear to look at you in a room like this.”

The room spun. “Anne,” he said desperately, taking her hand. “They were nothing. Really, it was only one. Only one, and the other… nothing happened with her. Please. There’s only you.” He tried to raise her hand to his lips, but she pulled away.

“What you’re trying to tell me is there are two facts to this matter,” she said, feigning calm. “The first: that there was someone else. The second: that there’s only me.” She shook her head. “But both of these things cannot be true, do you see?”

He looked close to tears. “I don’t think of her,” he said, voice catching. “You’re within your rights to hate me today. But, please, think carefully: this isn’t a decision that’s only for today: this is a decision for the rest of our lives.”

“You couldn’t bring yourself to think about it carefully,” she said harshly. “And all I ever did was think about it! I could get mistaken for a harlot, but I knew! I knew the truth about myself! I worked so hard to make sure there was one little part of me that was respectable! To be  _ respectable _ for the likes of you, Gilbert Blythe! And you! You, with all your advantages, couldn’t bother!” She was yelling now. “Get out!”

He retreated then. 

Marilla stepped into the hallway as he passed, following him down the stairs. Matthew stood as he crossed the kitchen. 

“What’s happening?” Marilla asked the young man.

“I don’t know,” he said, stepping onto the porch. 

“Did she call off the engagement?” Matthew asked as the trio walked down the drive. 

“I don’t know,” Gilbert repeated.

Marilla reached out a hand, stopping him. “Well, let’s be sensible,” she said. “Did she give you back the ring?”

“No,” Gilbert said. “But I wouldn’t put it past her to throw it out her window soon enough.”

“Oh, Gilbert,” Marilla sighed. “What would your father say?”

Gilbert put a hand to his face. “I know. I should never have. I’d had quite a lot to drink that night, and I was out with friends, and one thing lead to another--”

“That’s enough,” Matthew said suddenly. 

“I would never have done it,” Gilbert said, shaking his head. “If I knew she were out there somewhere.”

He turned then, heading back home with his tail between his legs. 

A few days had passed without word from Anne. Soon enough, it was time for the harvest and the close of summer. 

He wondered how she fared at her first harvest. He remembered his first as a young child, the exhaustion he felt down to his bones and the pride he’d felt in doing his part to keep his small family afloat. He paused in his work, looking down the hill to the white specks toiling in Cuthberts’ fields below. 

“Blythe,” Bash said. “Enough of that, my friend. It doesn’t do you any good.”

He walked back to the apple trees. “Is this the part where you say ‘she’ll come around?’” 

“I don’t know if she will,” Bash admitted. “But I think she’ll at least give you back your mother’s ring, so you’ll see her again.”

“That’s not a very funny joke,” Gilbert muttered, climbing a ladder. 

“Didn’t say it was a joke,” Bash responded. “Honestly, Blythe: what were you thinking, taking up with some girl?”

“Be quiet,” Gilbert hissed. “Or Hazel will hear you.”

Bash scoffed. “She already knows, what does it matter. Now answer the question.”

“I guess I just thought it didn’t matter,” Gilbert admitted. “None of the girls I’d grown up with had caught my eye. None of my roommates’ sisters. I just never thought it would happen for me.”

“What would happen?” Bash questioned. “Are you talking about love?” His voice was incredulous.

“Yes,” Gilbert mumbled, pulling apples from their branches.

“So let me get this right: you were something like 20 years old and ready to throw in the towel? Love just wasn’t happening for you?”

“Yes, Bash. That’s what I thought.” Gilbert threw the apples with more force than necessary. “I just don’t understand how she doesn’t see it was just a mistake! That it meant nothing!”

“Well, Anne’s 20,” Bash commented.

“So?”

“So she didn’t give up on finding you. Must be hard for her to understand how you would.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah, oh,” Bash said, shaking the ladder a bit to jostle the young man. “Maybe she thinks since you threw that other girl over so easily you could do the same to her--”

“I would never do that to Anne,” Gilbert said forcefully.

Bash shrugged. “How should she know that? Do you even tell her you love her?”

“What?” Gilbert nearly tumbled from the ladder.

“Do you?” Bash questioned.

“Well I-- She-- With everything I do, she knows I love her--”

“Does she?” Bash asked again. “Do you say it? Because that’s what some ladies need. And how do you know she loves you?” Bash’s eyes narrowed.

“Because I asked her,” Gilbert said shortly. 

“You made her tell you? When?”

“When I proposed.”

“And you didn’t say it yourself!” It wasn’t a question. 

“I guess, well, not in so many words.”

Sebastian stared at his brother. “I can’t believe you’re actually this stupid.”

“I love you, too,” Gilbert mumbled.

“Listen: you need to tell her that. But try to say it some other way. The tone’s not great, Blythe.” 

“She doesn’t want to see me.”

“Do I really have to call you stupid again?” Bash asked. “Why don’t you write her a letter? All those years of school, you must know how to write something decent.”

Hours later, and bone-tired, Gilbert sat at his desk, pen in hand. 

He could think of no way to get his note to her until Sunday. He stood at the end of the sermon, envelope in hand. He caught Marilla Cuthbert’s eye, saw her subtly shake her head. She remained behind in her pew, encouraging her family to head to their carriage. Gilbert approached her.

“Miss Cuthbert,” he greeted. 

“Gilbert,” she said. “You don’t want to give that to her directly. She’s still in a foul temper and I suspect she would just stomp on it in the dirt. Best give it to me.”

“And you’ll give it to her?” He asked, pulling the letter from his pocket. 

“I will,” she promised. “Perhaps at the end of the day tomorrow, after we’re in from the harvest. She’ll be too tired to stomp, I reckon.”

“Is she holding up well?” Gilbert asked. “It’s a hard thing, working a farm, and she’s so small--”

“Oh, she’s a strong thing,” Marilla said, patting Gilbert once on the back.

“I know,” he mouthed. 

At sunset the next day, the three Cuthberts finished their final row and walked, slow and sore, back to the house for a simple supper. Anne washed the back of her neck, her back aching as she straightened out to stand upright. 

Marilla served the family the soup that had been left to cook throughout the day. Anne cut them each a slice of white bread. They ate in a tired silence. 

With the bowls cleared, Anne stood again, rubbing at a knot in her shoulder as she went to stand on the porch, the first chill of autumn on the night air. She heard the door open once more behind her, but she did not take her focus away from the sky.

“Do you think there’s a star for every one of us?” She asked.

“I think there’s more stars than people,” answered Marilla.

“But shouldn’t there be one for every person who ever was? One for your mother and one for your father,” Anne said quietly. “And one for mine. And one for you.” Marilla took a seat in the rocking chair. “And one for me. And one for whoever I’m star-crossed with. That’s what they say, isn’t it?”

“I’m not so sure everyone has a star-crossed lover,” Marilla told the young woman. 

“Do you think I do?” Anne whispered. 

“That’s for you to decide,” Marilla said, reaching into her pocket and removing Gilbert’s letter. She handed it to the girl.

“What’s this?” Anne asked. 

“It’s from your fiance,” Marilla replied. Anne moved to speak, but Marilla interjected. “You still wear the ring. If you read this letter and decide you don’t think the title suits him, that’s perfectly fine. But you should read it. He was right, you know: this isn’t a decision for just a day, it’s a decision for life.”

Anne looked at the envelope. “Marilla--”

“Lock the door when you’re done, and don’t forget the lantern,” the older woman instructed, disappearing into the house. 

It was several moments before Anne had worked up to opening the envelope. With a deep breath, she tore it open.

_ My Best Friend, _

_ Something that you said has been lingering in my mind. I keep thinking about how you longed to be respectable, to maintain yourself in this way that has led to such an argument between us, so that someday, should you have met the man you loved, there would be something left of you to give.  _

_ I am so glad that you were careful, Anne. It fills me with relief to know that no one ever hurt you in that way, or took liberties with your body or heart. But even if they did, I would still love you.  _

_ Even if you had given yourself to someone, willfully and by choice, as I did, I would still love you.  _

_ You were brave and told me so much more than I had a right to know that night we first met. I can see you now, in my arms as we danced, telling me of your stories. You even had the courage to tell me about your great desire to write and what it was that held you back. I admire you so, and I thought that it was clear in everything that I do that I love you so as well. But it has recently been brought to my attention that I have never said it to you. Of course, I can not say it aloud to you through a letter, but if you will allow me to visit you at Green Gables I will be happy to tell you over and over. _

_ For now, I will write it. _

_ I love you, Anne.  _

_ Anne. What a lovely name. And to think you called it plain once! No, it hangs from my lips like the Gardens of Babylon, like the words of the sweetest song.  _

_ You also graciously brought the fact that I have not kissed you to my attention. This is no reflection of my feelings for you and I would very much like to remedy this, if you’ll let me.  _

_ I hope that you believe me when I say that if I had any inkling or clue that you were out on the horizon for me, I would never have behaved as I did. I’m very sorry that this has hurt you.  _

_ I also hope, more than anything, that you can forgive me. _

_ Yours, if you’ll have me, _

_ Gilbert _

Anne looked back towards the sky, thinking of one line in particular.

_ Even if you had given yourself to someone, willfully and by choice, as I did, I would still love you. _

Did he think he was better than her in some way? More magnanimous? The line ate away at her as she tried to understand what to make of it. 

It seemed like a plea, asking her to offer the same charity which he would have shown her.

But the question was: would he, really? 

Anne had heard, once or twice, that men want what’s only theirs. This is why girls’ reputations matter, why widows are perfectly acceptable: no man living can claim them. This is why she’d been so careful.

If it were true that Gilbert didn’t care, the shades of fear which she felt had all been for naught. She had been scared, of course, that she may be hurt for her own sake, but that final stress that she carried all those years was wasted, because he did not care either way. She was left feeling that there was something dreadfully unromantic about indifference. 

_ Or was it romantic that he loved me either way?  _

It struck her then: he’d written that he loved her. How had she not realized that he hadn’t said it? Maybe there was truth to the fact that she could simply feel it in everything he did, from his initial offer to teach her to write right through to now. She had never felt the need to pressure him to voice his feelings: doing so would not have told her anything she did not already know. 

She thought of the people who had mistook her for a scarlet woman and how easy it had been to tell herself that she alone was allowed to dictate her worth. Wasn’t it the same for Gilbert? 

She reached for the lantern and began to cross the property.

She stood in his front yard, collecting pebbles around her. She launched a few to his window. 

“Anne?” A voice called from over to the right. She turned to see Bash standing in the doorway. “We haven’t gone to bed yet. Do you want me to go get him?”

“Oh,” she said with a blush. “Yes, please.”

Less than a minute later and Gilbert was hurrying out of the house, his sleeves rolled up and hair in disarray.

He walked to her slowly, as though she were a wounded animal. He stopped suddenly a few feet away. A queer look came over his face. 

“You got a sunburn,” he told her quietly, reaching out a hand before thinking better of it.

“I got your letter,” she said. He waited for her to continue. “I shouldn’t have judged you so harshly,” she admitted. 

“It’s all right,” he said. “I shouldn’t have done it to begin with. I knew better.”

She shook her head. “It can’t matter. It doesn’t matter.”

“It doesn’t?” He looked hopeful.

“Only,” she bit her lip. “Were you kind to the girl? When it was all over?”

He gave a sad laugh. “She was the one who threw me off. ‘I can’t be tied down now,’ is what she said, I think.”

“Did you despair?” Anne asked him, reaching out a hand. 

“For a week or two,” he admitted. “But nothing like how I’ve felt these past few days thinking of the mess I’d made with you.”

Slowly, she wound her fingers through his. “You can tell me of the things that have hurt you,” she told him. She was reminded of something. “Does my name really hang from your lips like the Gardens of Babylon?” He laughed. “Only, I think that’s so romantic. How did you ever think that up?”

“Yes,” he told her, closing the space between them, his hand finding her cheek. “I suppose you’re a great inspiration to my tired mind.”

“You said you would kiss me,” she breathed. “Will you, please?”

He nodded, leaning down to her. Her eyes closed as they found peace in perfect silence. 

It didn’t last long enough. He pulled away first, placing one more kiss on her sun-reddened nose. 

“Oh,” she remembered. “There was something I had talked about with Diana.”

“Yes?” He prompted, lips lingering on her forehead. 

“She said perhaps I should consider seducing you.” 

She felt his body tense against hers.

“I don’t think you’re not supposed to tell the person that you’re trying to seduce them,” he commented.

“Well, I’m not,” she explained. “It was only that we wondered what it’s all like. We said one of us should consider seducing her fiance, and Diana said I would be better suited to it since we’re neighbors--”

“Oh, yes,” he laughed, the sound full of irony. “That makes sense.”

“-- and I was wondering if this means you don’t have any hesitations?”

“What does?”

“The fact that you’ve, you know--”

“Anne!” He exclaimed. 

“It’s just a thought!”

“I don’t need that thought in my head!”

“Oh, so you would like to,” Anne said innocently.

“Of course I’d  _ like  _ to,” Gilbert hissed, leading her further away from the house. “But we  _ shouldn’t _ .”

“But you did,” Anne reminded him.

“But I  _ shouldn’t  _ have, do you see?”

“No.” She answered honestly. “This isn’t fair. You’ll always have the memory and I’ll be left wondering for years, until you finish medical school, I suppose, and we can get married.”

Gilbert sighed. “Anne… it’s not the same thing at all.”

“Why?” Her voice came like a dare. 

“Because I love you, and there’s the difference.” 

“So you won’t ruin me?” She questioned, eyes narrowing.

“No,” he said. “If we decided that this was what we really wanted, I would make sure we were careful, that we had a story for why we had snuck away, and no one would ever know. No one but us. I mean that it’s different because it will be a different thing entirely. It would be a new memory for me.”

“All because you love me?”

“Yes,” he confirmed. “Because I love you.”

She leaned her forehead against his chest. One of his hands found the back of her head, the other her waist. 

“You’ll leave soon,” she whispered.

“Yes I will,” he said, his thumb rubbing circles on her back. 

“I’ve been silly to push you away,” she said. “I could have heard those words sooner, and now they’ll be gone from me so soon.” 

His hand settled beneath her chin. “Don’t be melancholy,” he told her. “You’ll be in school, too. It’s a lot of work to prepare for the Queen’s exams. I’m sure you’ll hardly have time to think of me.”

“Will you think of me?” She asked him, craning her neck to see him properly.

“Everyday,” he told her. “And I’ll be thinking that I love you.”

“Will you write to me then? Every time you think that you love me, will you write it down and send it to me?”

He laughed. “I suppose I could do that,” he told her. “You’re going to cost me a lot in postage,” he teased.

“You won’t mind,” she said confidently.

“You’re right: I won’t.”

He walked her home to Green Gables, leaving only after he’d heard the click of the lock and saw the burning light of her lantern coming from the window of her gable room.

The morning came for goodbyes. Anne delayed as long as she could, dressing slowly, making her bed carefully, and clearing her desk of all clutter. Finally, she could delay no longer and descended the stairs.

She crossed over to the orchard, where Sebastian stood harnessing the horse and carriage. 

“Where’s Gilbert?” She called out to him, but the young man was already coming around the corner of the house, dressed in his best suit with a bouquet of goldenrods and asters in his hand.

He smiled sheepishly as he offered the flowers up to her. “What a treasure,” she said quietly. 

He helped into the carriage before taking his spot beside her, his hand in hers all the way to the Bright River station. 

“Use that brain of yours this term, brother,” Bash said as the three got down.

“I will,” Gilbert said absentmindedly, pressing his thumb to Anne’s palm one last time.

“I’ll be home soon,” he promised. “You’ll write?”

“Of course I will,” she told him. She looked around, making sure no one was watching, before standing on her tiptoes and pressing a kiss to his cheek. “I love you,” she whispered into his ear. She noticed his breathing had become uneven. “Be calm,” she told him, a hand on the same cheek that she’d kissed. “You’re off on a great adventure. And I am, too.”

They heard the train conductor call out for passengers. It would seem Gilbert’s time was up. He boarded the train as his brother and fiancee waved from the platform.

The drive home to Avonlea was full of chatter.

“You’re not so down as I might have thought,” Bash said. “Some girls would have been crying their eyes out when they sent their sweetheart away.”

“What is there to cry over?” Anne asked. “When I think of all the blessings this year has brought me, I can’t bring myself to shed a tear.”

Marilla Cuthbert watched as Anne, her Anne, hurried up the stairs back to her bedroom, off to read or write or prepare for her first day of lessons in the morning. Quietly, she followed, watching from the hallway as Anne found the letter from her fiance on her desk. Perhaps the girl thought it was magic. Really, it was a small gift she was giving to John Blythe’s boy. 

Anne stared a moment at the letter, clearly written in Gilbert’s hand, before unfolding it.

_ My Anne With an E, _

_ I was thinking, here on the train, that I love you dearly. Be happy. _

_ With devotion, _

_ Gilbert _

  
  
  
  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello!
> 
> I hope you don't hate me too much for the ~drama~ of this chapter. I hadn't originally intended to have a chapter like this, but it seemed that things had gone too smoothly and I just couldn't leave them be.
> 
> Hope you're well!  
> S


	6. Chapter 6

In ivory organza, Diana Barry became Diana Wright. With her own wedding years off, her fiance stuck in a lab practical on the mainland and not able to come home until the following day, Anne Shirley-Cuthbert wandered the reception party in Charlottetown with a small notebook and pencil in hand, jotting down in her untidy script those things which she might like to have when her own time came. 

Diana had told her that she had always longed for a winter wedding, as blue  _ was  _ her color since childhood, the blue sash around her waist standing in testament to this. 

_ Blue suits Diana so well _ , Anne thought.  _ And winter weddings are lovely, but the symbolism is all wrong for me.  _

Anne wandered the halls of Josephine Barry’s home, lined with roses and baby’s breath and practically glimmering in the warm candle light. She dreamt of hyacinths and daffodils and tulips. And irises. 

She heard the clinking of glass and walked towards the sound. Mr. Barry was clearly proud, but it was Diana’s Aunt Jo who was calling the party to attention. Her left hand rested on the bride’s shoulder, the young woman blushing. 

“What a fortuitous day!” The older woman called out to the crowd. Glasses clinked for a minute until Jo raised her hand, requesting quiet. “The lovely Diana makes a lovely bride, to no one’s surprise. And her dear Fred cuts a dashing figure. As we join these two beautiful children together today, let us not forget who they were all this time that came before. Diana, sweet girl, won’t you play for us?” Josephine gestured to the magnificent grand piano at the center of the room.

Diana strode over to the instrument, her skirts lifted carefully over her feet. She took a moment to shift in her seat, clenching and unclenching her fists a time or two. But when her fingers did finally find their way to the keys, they floated gracefully in a way that would have been beautiful even without the lovely sound it produced. 

The music was like valleys and mountains, rivers running out to sea and tides coming into shore. Anne raised a hand to her face, surprised to find that she wept at the prettiness of it all. 

The night wore on. Anne watched her friend twirl in her white gown from the sides of the ballroom floor, feeling her stomach churn.

_ A wondrous talent,  _ Anne thought.  _ How could the world bear to be deprived of such talent? _

Slowly, the party began to clear, the guests from Avonlea dividing into groups. Some found their beds in the manse, others walked the Charlottetown streets, seeking shelter in hotels and inns. It must have been close to midnight when the bride and her mother quietly ascended the stairs. Anne watched them closely, breath catching. She supposed Mrs. Barry would help Diana undress before coming back downstairs, a sign specifically directed at the groom. 

Anne climbed the stairs in her turn, unsure what her aim was. She waited patiently, hidden around a corner, listening for the click of a bedroom door closing and the sound of heeled slippers going back down the stairs. Quickly, Anne knocked on the door.

“Fred?” Diana’s voice called hoarsely. 

“No,” Anne breathed. “No, it’s me. May I come in?” 

Diana pulled open the door. Anne stumbled into the room, feeling rather wild. 

“I have to tell you something,” Anne said. “But I fear I’ve only got a moment.” 

Diana peered into the hallway. “I fear you’re right.” She closed the door. 

Anne took her friend by the shoulders as though about to shake her. She looked her square in the face. “I have instructions for you, or, rather, for you to give him.”

“What?” Diana asked.

“You have to tell him… tell him not to finish while he’s still inside of you!” 

Diana’s face contorted. “What does that mean?”

“Men know what it means,” Anne insisted.

“Does that mean you and Gilbert…?”

“No,” Anne said. “It’s just… it’s something I’ve heard. I couldn’t  _ not  _ tell you.”

There was another faint knock on the door, and then Fred Wright entered, his bow tie hanging loosely around his neck. He was surprised to find more than just his wife.

“Oh,” he said. “What’s going on?”

Anne pressed her thumb into her friend’s palm. “You’ll be fine,” Anne assured her, voice high.

Diana threw her arms around the redhead. “I’ll tell you what it’s like in the morning,” she whispered. She felt Anne nod against her shoulder.

With her head bowed, Anne slipped past Fred, closing the door behind her. Perhaps she was a bit too loud. Further down the hallway, a grey head peaked out from a bedroom. Josephine Barry looked at Anne for a long moment.

“Whatever are you doing there, Miss Sutherland?”

Anne felt her face pale and her knees nearly give out beneath her. Miss Barry soon realized her gaffe.

“Oh, I’m so sorry, child,” the woman said. “I think I’m coming to understand. Won’t you come into my room? I have a pot of tea, I’m sure it will have you fit again in no time.”

Numbly, Anne walked into the bedroom and took a seat at a small table in front of the fire. Miss Barry poured them each a cup of floral tea into blue china. 

“You don’t have a face easily forgotten,” Josephine said as she plopped a sugar cube into her cup. “I could have sworn I’d been introduced to you at least once before, perhaps more. You were in Boston last year, weren’t you? At Mrs. Gardner’s Fourth of July celebration. I believe you were introduced to me as Elizabeth Sutherland then.”

“Elspeth Sutherland,” Anne corrected, her voice coming to her in little more than a breath.

“So you were,” Josephine replied, a small smile on her face as she offered the girl cream. “And now, can you remind me, who are you?”

“Please, ma’am, don’t… don’t tell anyone,” Anne pleaded quietly. 

“It’s certainly not my place to tell anyone,” Josephine assured her. “You’re not the first young person to make a life for yourself by way of a fiction or two, and I’m confident that you won’t be the last.”

“I don’t tell…” Anne searched for the word, finally landing on the one Josephine herself had used. “Fictions anymore.”

“Well I figured as much,” Josephine admitted. “Diana told me that her new friend had found a family in an unmarried brother and sister on a small farm and had found a beau in a neighbor training to be a doctor. Hardly a profitable grift for a veteran fiction teller such as yourself, if I can be so bold as to say so.”

“Yes,” Anne agreed with a sad laugh. “Not my usual sort.”

“Do they know about Elspeth Sutherland? And all the others?” Josephine asked, taking a sip of her tea.

“Matthew and Marilla-”

“Your new parents?”

“Yes, I suppose that’s what they are,” Anne said. “They don’t know.” She twisted her engagement ring around her finger. “My beau, he does.” 

“Have you considered telling them?” Josephine wondered.

“I dither,” Anne admitted. “I go back and forth in my own mind, sometimes convinced I haven’t done anything particularly wicked. Other times sure I am a great sinner.” She settled her gaze on a ceramic figurine on the mantle.

“Take it from one great sinner to another,” Josephine said. “A life of holding back is little life at all.”

Anne ambled to her own room. Nimble fingers reached back to unbutton her gown as she stood before a full length mirror. She watched the dress crumble around her ankles, still staring at her reflection.

It was a curious thing, she thought, for such a homely child to grow up to be something close to beautiful. She hadn’t noticed it happen, but remembered her first party as the special guest of Mr. Robinson.

“Your Cordelia is quite the handsome creature,” other men had told him.

“She is, indeed,” Mr. Robinson agreed. 

She had felt her stomach knot at this, uncomfortable to have been complimented in this way by such older men. She was 17 when men her own age began asking her to dance, her benefactor always pulling her away before the fellow could get his waltz. 

She didn’t understand it. To her eyes, her hips had come in too wide. She hadn’t grown quite tall enough to ever be considered statuesque. Worst of all, her freckles hadn’t faded as much as she had hoped they would. She was, however, very grateful that her hair had darkened to auburn. 

She turned to the side, raising her chin to see how she must look in profile, pulling on the edges of her corset and smoothing the chemise beneath. She wondered vaguely if Gilbert liked looking at her, then blushed, wondering if he would like looking at her, undressed as she was. But that was years away. Perhaps she would look completely different then. She hoped she would be beautiful by then, not just next to beautiful.

Anne laid in bed for a couple of hours, trying not to wonder whether his last lover had been her better.

Morning came sooner than she would have liked. Today, she dressed in wool instead of silk and waited in the foyer with the other guests, ready to send the young couple off on their honeymoon to Italy. 

To the sound of applause, the two descended the stairs, wide, easy smiles on both their faces. As Fred shook hands with his father, Diana walked dreamily over to Anne, embracing her for just a moment. 

“It was magnificent, Anne,” she said into the girl’s ear before being pulled away, back into the crowd and out the door. 

Anne felt strange as she walked out to the street. She had not been ready to receive such news from a trusted source. Her mind unbalanced, she walked slowly to a tea house, in need of a place to pass the cold December day until Gilbert’s train came in. 

She sat for perhaps an hour, wondering how such an experience could be magnificent after all she’d heard of it. 

Gilbert Blythe had woken before dawn to catch the earliest ferry from the mainland. By midday, he had made it to the island and was left wondering why he had complicated an already agreed upon plan. Why, he had no way of knowing where Anne would be three hours before he was meant to meet her. 

He checked his trunk at the station and began to wander Charlottetown, the first instance in which he’d spent any meaningful amount of time in the city since he was 18 years old. He passed by the doctor’s office he’d apprenticed in and was suddenly struck by the memory of the woman, a few years his senior, who had clerked there. 

At that point in his life, Winifred Rose was the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen, graceful and elegant and feminine in a way that both intimidated him and drew him in. How close he’d come to marrying her, to spending his life in Europe with rich folks and top-tier academics, he could never be sure. More than that, he still could not understand what it was that had stopped him from going to her and proposing. It would have given more than he could have dreamed for his life. 

He found himself tracing the steps of their short courtship, thinking perhaps this would evoke some clarity for him. He turned a few corners and saw her family’s home, long since abandoned, and thought of her parents and their confidence in him. At 23, he could see now that it was certainly unearned. 

On he went, back to the main streets in town, and walked towards the tea house she had brought him to. Winifred had taught him the rules of courtship, guidelines for how to be. He put them to good use with Silly Cicely Graham in Toronto. Silently, he thanked the memory of the young woman for giving him these tools. 

Hidden by the glare of the weak winter sun, Gilbert could not see the table where he and Winifred had sat from the road. He remembered the tea house as being warm, with decent drinks, so considered it as good a place as any to spend an hour or two. He stepped into the building, removing his hat and gloves as he went. He stood behind a small family as he waited to be seated, taking the opportunity to get a look at the table he had shared those few times with Winnie.

In deep blue wool, a redhaired woman sat at that table with her back to him, her gaze fixed out the opposite window. 

Would it be rude to call out to her? Could it just be a lookalike? He couldn’t decide. He allowed the waiter to seat him, but found himself standing just as soon and approaching the table by the window. 

“Excuse me, Miss,” he said quietly as he approached. The woman turned her attention to him, a smile already on her face.

“Gilbert,” she said happily.

He felt silly for not recognizing his Anne from behind.

“May I sit?” He asked, gesturing to the chair opposite her. 

“You can, but I’m afraid they’re bringing me my bill now,” she admitted. 

“That’s all right,” he told her. “Was there somewhere else you wanted to go?” He hoped so, as there was no way he could reach out to her as he wished in this place.

“Not in particular,” she said. “We could get the next train, if you’d like. I just want to speak to you.”

“All right,” he agreed.

She wore a queer look on her face. “How I’ve missed you, Gil…”

“I’ve missed you, too, Anne.”

He paid her bill before she could think to object, and then they were off to buy their tickets at the station. It was a slow service back to Bright River with few passengers in the middle of the day. Still, Gilbert noticed that she wore that peculiar look. 

He nudged her shoulder. “What are you thinking about?”

“Just something about the wedding,” she replied.

“Did you enjoy yourself?” He asked. “I’m so sorry I couldn’t accompany you.”

“It was very beautiful,” Anne said, her eyebrows knitted together.

“That doesn’t seem to be all of it,” he remarked.

“Have I gotten so bad at lying?” She asked with a smirk. “No, I’m just caught up on something Diana said to me before she left this morning.”

“And what was that?” He prompted.

“That it was  _ magnificent. _ ”

“What was?” She did not respond. “Oh. That.”

“Yes, that,” she responded with a roll of her eyes. “And it seems so impossible that that could be true!”

“Why does it seem impossible?” He asked, a teasing smile on his face. She did not notice, her attention focused as it was on working out this puzzle. 

“Every source I have,  _ but  _ Diana, has told me the opposite,” she said. “Who am I to believe?”

“Well--”

“ _ Was  _ it magnificent?” She asked him suddenly, all wide-eyes and earnestness. Gilbert felt his cheeks grow hot. 

“It was…” He stumbled on his words, realizing the weight with which she was likely to take them. “It was all right.”

“All right?” She blinked. “That’s it? That’s all you have to say about this singular experience?” 

“Honestly, Anne,” he said, unable to look at her. “It was not good, not bad.”

She looked at him with disbelief. “You are a horrible source, Gilbert Blythe. How am I supposed to get any clarity from that?”

“Perhaps you’re not meant to get clarity yet,” he offered.

“Aren’t you supposed to be a scientist?” She demanded. “What sort of philosophy is that for a medical researcher?” 

“I’m sorry,” she felt him squeeze her hand. “That’s just the way it is.”

“It’s unfair,” she said with a frown. “Don’t you want to know if it’s always just alright?” 

“What?” It would seem to Gilbert that this conversation was in danger of going off the rails. 

“You told me during the summer that it’s love that makes all the difference,” she began. “What a remarkable hypothesis! Shouldn’t it be tested?”

He laughed once, the sound humorless. “I guess it will be tested once I’ve got a medical degree and we have a marriage license.”

Anne slumped dramatically in her seat. “You told me that if it was what we  _ really  _ wanted, you would come up with a story, a way to make it happen.” He opened his mouth to object but was cut short. “You did!” She argued. “Do you not want to be with me in that way? Is it something that you don’t look forward to? That you’d like to put off as long as possible? Until we’re married in a church?”

He was flabbergasted. How was he supposed to object when the questions were framed as they were. “Those are… infallible arguments!” 

“But is it true that you don’t want me? Say it is and I’ll leave it be.”

What was he to do? Lie and hurt her feelings? Tell the truth and damn himself to the impossible task of finding several moments alone with her in the middle of the Canadian winter? 

He settled on a simple “It’s impossible.”

“Matthew and Marilla are going to see the premier in a few days,” she said quickly.

Perhaps it wasn’t impossible. 

“Are they?” He asked, attempting to seem indifferent. 

“Yes,” she said. “They’ll be gone for two nights.”

Immediately and without his consent the cogs of his brain began to turn. Perhaps something would call him back to Halifax this week? It would have to be the day after they left, to give him an excuse for not being on their train, to not raise suspicions on the timing…

“Gilbert?” Anne’s voice called from beside him. She tugged on the sleeve of his suit jacket. “What do you think?”

His brows pulled together in concentration. “Maybe.” 

Hope overtook her. For what, she was not sure.

An hour later, the couple stood on the platform at Bright River, peering as far down the road as they could.

“Where’s Bash?” She asked.

“He said he’d be here at 2,” Gilbert said, reaching for his watch. He frowned. “This thing never works. I’ll go in and ask for the time, be right back.”

It took a few minutes to get the attention of the elderly station master. The man ducked and weaved behind the counter, things falling so that he never heard Gilbert calling him. 

“Excuse me,” Gilbert finally said as the man bobbed back up. “Could you tell me the time?” 

“Why, it’s 2:30,” the station master said, his gaze cast outside the doors. “Is that your girl? The redhead?”

“Yes?”

“You shouldn’t leave her out there alone,” the man said. “There’s been a strange fellow hanging around here lately. He’s not staying at the inn, or with any of the families in town.”

“What do people think he’s doing here?” Gilbert asked. “What do they say he looks like?”

“No one knows,” he said. “I heard he’s middle-aged, brown beard. Odd accent.”

Gilbert had thought he wasn’t so easily scared. He had spent years living in a large city, wandering the streets after dark. He was unsure why he felt worried now, in this small, provincial place. But he did.

He walked to the door. “Anne,” he called out, working to keep his voice and expression neutral. “Why don’t you come in? It’s cold out.”

Eventually Sebastian did come. As Gilbert walked Anne home from his house after dinner, she insisted on forming a plan: his maybe had become a firm yes in her mind. 

“They leave tomorrow,” she told him. “Around noon.”

“Are you  _ sure _ this is what you want to do, Anne?” He questioned. 

“I’ve been thinking about it and it seems we’re unlikely to get another opportunity.”

“Is that reason enough?” He asked, stopping her from walking further.

“No,” she admitted. “But I want to know something that’s magnificent. Don’t you?”

He swallowed hard. They walked on.

Anne walked into the house to find Matthew and Marilla huddled around the kitchen fire.

“There you are,” Matthew said. “We were getting a bit worried.” There seemed to be truth enough in that. A single look at Marilla showed a flustered woman. 

“Here I am,” Anne said. “The wedding was lovely.”

“Yes, yes: we’ll get to that,” Marilla said, agitated. “I wanted to talk to you about possibly staying with Rachel while we’re away.”

Anne recoiled. “Why would I do that?” 

“We just think it would be good for you to have some company,” Matthew said. “The nights are long this time of year. Can get lonesome here by yourself. A little scary, too,” he said with a tap to her shoulder.

“Oh, Matthew. I’m 20 years old,” she said. “Plenty old enough to spend a few days alone.” More than old enough, really. Old enough to conduct a romantic liaison while they were away. “Why, Diana is my age and they just shipped her off, married, to Italy!”

“Yes,” Marilla said. “But that’s just the point: she’s married. Not alone.”

Anne embraced the woman. “I’ll be fine. I promise.”

Reluctantly, the siblings let the matter be. 

At breakfast, Gilbert began to set the groundwork for his tale. He pulled an old telegram from his school things, making it look as though he’d received it with the morning mail.

He frowned, all part of the act.

“What is it?” Sebastian asked. 

“A pipe burst at my boarding house,” Gilbert said, tucking the telegram away. “They want the boarders to go back and check their things.”

“Go back?” Hazel scoffed. “You just got here.”

“I really should, though,” Gilbert insisted. “I have my lab equipment there. It’s all worth a good amount of money. Maybe some of it can be saved.”

“You need me to drive you back to the station?” Bash asked.

“No, I heard Charlie Sloane is heading into town tomorrow afternoon. I’ll ride with him.”

Gilbert ignored Hazel’s narrowing eyes. 

The next day, Gilbert packed his bag, calling out his goodbyes in the late afternoon before heading for the woods. He was careful to make it look as though he were actually headed into town before reversing his course and making his way to Green Gables at dusk. She greeted him with a blush, opening the door before he could knock. 

“Hello,” he told her, kissing her cheek. 

“A very casual greeting for such a momentous occasion,” she teased, allowing him to pass. 

Was this the start of it all then? Gilbert was unsure. He saw now that she had laid out the table, adorning it with pine cones and evergreen garlands, Miss Cuthbert’s good china laid out with special care.

“What’s all this?” He asked, letting her lead him to the dining table. 

“I know I said I’d make a terrible wife when you proposed, but Marilla seems bent on making sure that’s not entirely the case,” Anne explained with a wink. “‘The two of you are fit to starve with your cooking,’ I think was what she said about an hour after we told her of our engagement.” Gilbert laughed before growing quiet. “What is it?” She asked.

“I was just thinking of my sister-in-law,” he said.

“Mary?”

“Yes,” he replied with a sad smile. “She really was a great cook. The food quality really went down in the Blythe-Lacroix household when she passed.” His eyes narrowed, as though seeing something far away in time. “It’s still so extraordinary to me. A woman can survive childbirth twice, a hard life in the Bog, but it’s a simple cut from a kitchen knife that…” He took a deep breath. “Sepsis. Can you believe it?” She did not speak. “I was the one who told her…”

“She must be very proud of you,” Anne said quietly. “Studying as you are.”

The sad smile returned. “One more man on the case.”

“Don’t say it like that,” Anne told him. “Even if it's not you who finds a cure for the things that ail people, isn’t it something remarkable to leave a legacy for others to build off of?”

“Maybe,” he reletented. “She would have loved to meet you. Dad, too.”

“I believe there’s a special joy in heaven,” she said softly. “How happy they must be when you’re home, to see their entire family under one roof. I see it so clearly now that I have a home: fond words to the people you love, reminders to mail a letter or small encouragements when working out a puzzle, they’re all incantations and enchantments that weave around us and hold us together. I think they’re the only hymns God cares for.”

He took a seat on the bench at the table, resting his chin in his hand. “You think it’s a hymn when I tell you that I see how you quietly push me to be better? That you bring me such joy?”

“Don’t you?” She asked. “I do love how the minister calls Him a ‘gracious heavenly father.’ If that’s true, what could please Him more than the cherishing of kindred spirits?”

“Maybe you’ll end up a theologian,” he commented. 

“Maybe,” she said. “But right now all I want is to pass my entrance exams for Queens.”

“Your writing is getting better and better,” he told her. “I could see so much improvement in your letters as the term went on.”

“You never say that,” she replied.

“I don’t want to pressure you, is all.”

“Do you think I’ll be able to pull it off?” She asked him, resting her head on his shoulder. “I’m understanding all of the material, but will I be able to write it as I should during the exam?”

“I think you will,” he told her with a squeeze of her hand. 

“Yes,” she said, lips pursing. “But you’re biased… twice-over, actually! You’re both lover and teacher.”

“I guess you’ll just have to take it on trust,” he said quietly, kissing the top of her head. “And I’ll have to take it on trust that your cooking has improved since that soup.”

“Hey!”

“The meat wasn’t even cooked all the way!” He teased.

“It was cooked!” She argued. “It just wasn’t well-seasoned. That won’t be the case this time, I assure you!” She rose from the bench to check her concoction, but Gilbert took hold of her hand. “What?”

“I’m just very in love with you,” he said simply.

There were moments of quiet over supper, each lost in their thoughts of what was shortly to be. Gilbert saw as she set her spoon down with a clatter, saw as she set her shoulders in bold determination, but heard her teeth chatter with nerves before firmly setting her jaw. 

“Wait here,” she instructed, running off to another room off the kitchen and then up the stairs. Gilbert did as she commanded, his foot tapping in nervous anticipation beneath the table. A few minutes later, Anne emerged on the stairs, her hair falling across her shoulders, bare on one side from where the white linen nightgown had slipped down. “Are you ready?” She asked him. 

Dutifully he rose and followed her up the stairs, stopping in the doorway, set aglow by the many candles she had lit across her bedroom, taken aback by the sight of the double bed.

Anne blushed. “I told Matthew I’d been rolling out of the smaller one in my sleep,” she muttered.

Gilbert smiled. “You should know I’ve been having very vivid dreams lately. The fellow in the room next to mine says I sleepwalked a few times last month.”

“Really?” Anne asked. “That’s fascinating! Do you ever remember the dreams?”

“Vaguely,” he said. “There was one where I was at a zoo, another I was walking across the orchard, coming to visit you at Green Gables.”

She smiled. “I like the sound of that.”

They pulled off their shoes and then climbed into the bed, both unsure exactly how to behave. They sat at the edge, looking at one another for a long while. 

“I think we should say something to mark the occasion,” Anne said.

“What do you think we should say?” He asked quietly.

“We could say whatever’s on our hearts, ask any questions of the other we’ve always wondered.”

He did have something to ask her. “Why me?” He whispered.

“What do you mean?”

“Why did you choose to reveal yourself to me on New Year’s?” He asked. “I was a stranger.”

She blinked, biting her lip. “Perhaps it was simply time,” she said with a small shrug, but it was clear even she didn’t believe that. “Years of wrestling the rope from darkness,” she whispered. “Fighting with all the strength I possessed so that I would know my own name when it was finally called. I had begun to think, ‘Anne: if you keep on pulling, the rope may break.’” She looked at him then from beneath heavy lids. “And there was something in your face that seemed so sorrowful, I thought perhaps you were somehow like me. When you came closer, I could see that you had eyes full of stars, or perhaps like honey: sweet and sticky and maybe ready to catch the crumbs of my truth.”

“You could see all of that in me?” He asked, leaning in closer.

“Yes,” she said. 

He looked out her window to the cherry tree with its naked limbs. “I’ve wondered what pulled me to you,” he said. “Pulled me across Mrs. Graham’s ballroom to speak to you. Pulled me out of the wrong arms and then the wrong bed.”

“I know what it was,” Anne said. “I have something to show you.” She stood from the bed and went for her desk, picking up a spool of gold thread. She sat down once more. “There’s an invisible string that lives between us. It pulled me first to Avonlea as a child, where if fate had been a bit kinder we could have grown up together as friends. It pulled you out to sea so you could find your family in Sebastian, and pulled you back home so you could grow strong in your convictions on solid ground. It pulled you through loss and on to medical school, pulled you out of the arms of the first girl and then the second, and pulled you across the room to speak to me for the first time on New Year’s Day. It pulled me through the terrors of my childhood, to Avonlea, as I said, then across the continent, from one great city to another, taking me safely through the parlors and parties I dared to traverse, all the way to Toronto. To you.” She reached for his hand and began to unravel the spool of thread, wrapping one end around his left hand ring finger and the other end around her own, making rings of gold. She took her other hand and reached for her nightstand, picking up a pair of scissors. “And though we cut the string now, it doesn’t mean we’re no longer tied to one another. It’s simply so the string that has served us so well, binding us to the other before we could ever know it, can be seen and felt not only in our hearts, but here in this beautiful, physical world that heaven has blessed us with.” In a single movement, she cut through the string, tying off the loose ends in a bow on Gilbert’s hand and then holding out hers so he could do the same. 

Gilbert looked down at their hands and smiled. “I think these will do well until we can get something a little more solid.”

“It’s something to look forward to,” she said. 

“I’m always amazed at your imagination,” he admitted. “It’s so strange to think how creative children are, and how so many manage to grow up into dull adults.”

“I’m sure everyone uses their imagination, they just don’t call it that,” she told him. “What else is it when someone decides to buy a few acres of land? To try a new recipe for dinner? Why, they’ve imagined it and now just have the money and power to make it so. Besides: I firmly believe that you carry every year of your life with you. I may be 20, but I’m also 16 and 10 and I can reach out and remember what it was to feel those ages. Everyone is the same way.” 

“What do you like to imagine, then?” He asked her, kicking off his boots and crossing his legs on her bed.

“Going West. Maybe we could do that for our honeymoon in a few years. I saw a photograph of Vancouver Island and it’s left me with the distinct desire to see the Pacific Ocean.”

“Do you know about the Redwood Forests in California?” He asked her. “They’re filled with ancient trees. Imagine all the versions of themselves those trees carry with them.”

The feeling of for once being perfectly understood settled over her like a heavy blanket. “Yes,” she said. “Imagine.”

She reached out a hand to cup his cheek. His hands found her waist, pulling her into his lap. Her lips found his slowly. Eyes closed, she felt how his teeth grazed across her bottom lip, felt his tongue pushing into her mouth, filling her mind with something like perfect exhaustion and making her ready to give herself over to whatever came next. 

It was the sound of an icicle falling from the roof which pulled her attention back to the matter at hand. 

She pulled away a few inches. He opened his eyes a moment later, pupils dark. “There was something else I meant for us to do first,” she whispered, breathing heavily. Reluctantly, Gilbert let her pull away and walk to her desk. “Come here, please,” she said.

From her desk drawer she pulled a piece of thick parchment and a feather pen with ink. “I just think we should write something down to commemorate this,” she said, face pink. He ran a hand through her hair. 

“Sure,” he said.

“Will you write it? Your writing is so much better than mine. I’d hate to spoil it.”

“You wouldn’t,” he assured. He took the pen, nonetheless. 

She watched him carefully as he spelled out the nature of their evening, writing a couple of lines about the significance of the day. Her brows pulled together.

“May I?” She asked.

“Of course.” He handed the pen back, allowing her to take her turn.

Gilbert stood back, watching as Anne, nee Sybil, stood before him in her sheer white nightgown, the glow of the candles shining through so he could see the outline of her body for the first time. He thought there was a special sort of verity in the image alone. He saw as her breathing grew uneven until, finally, she set the pen down.

“Is that it?” He asked as she straightened out to face him. She nodded silently. He wrapped his arms around her waist again. “Are you nervous?”

“A bit,” she admitted. “But I trust we’ve come so far, you could hardly let something terrible befall me now,” she said with a breathy laugh.

“There are no monsters here,” he told her softly. 

“No tales. No fictions. No lies,” she whispered. “Just dreams.”

With nothing to fear, the two allowed the thread which bound them to pull them closer together. There was truth in the act. 

Gilbert opened his eyes to soft light streaming in through the window, the song of a red cardinal sounding from that same bare cherry tree he’d settled his gaze on the night before. Carefully, he untangled his own bare limbs from those of his sleeping fiancee. He crept quietly to the window sill to admire the snow covered landscape. Instead, what he saw nearly stopped his heart.

“Anne!” He said loudly. “Wake up!”

Groggily, Anne began to untangle herself from the blankets. “What?” She muttered. 

“The Cuthberts are coming up the drive! They’re opening the gate now! Get dressed!”

“Oh no!” She said, nearly falling from the bed before reaching for her corset and blouse.

“Where are my boots?” He shouted as he pulled his suspenders on over his shoulders.

“I don’t know!” She said, trying desperately to latch her skirt correctly. “I’ll just go get an old pair of Matthew’s. He won’t notice and we can figure it out later!” In her stocking feet, she ran down the hall and fetched the shoes.

Flattening out his hair, Gilbert flew down the stairs. Anne tore open the cabinets, pulling down the bag of sugar and a cup. 

“We’ll tell them you needed sugar,” Anne said. “That you hadn’t been here even five minutes.” 

That was all the time they had. Matthew Cuthbert pushed through the front door and into the kitchen, his sister close behind. 

“Oh,” Matthew said, taking in the scene. 

“Hello!” Anne said loudly. “How was it? Did you see him? The premier?”

“I reckon we did see him,” Marilla said, taking off her coat. “But could barely hear him over the crowd.”

“That’s a shame,” Gilbert chimed. 

Marilla looked at him. “Gilbert just needed to borrow some sugar.”

“And now he has it,” Marilla said. “And we should be getting on with our chores, Anne. We’re behind on laundry.”

“Oh, yes,” she said with a sigh. “I’ll walk you out, Gil,” Anne said. The two walked out to the porch while Matthew went up to his own room to set down his things. Marilla watched the young couple through the window.

Gilbert Blythe raised a hand to Anne’s face, speaking in a low voice, face serious and gaze intense. Anne’s hand moved to cover his hand with her own, her other finding the crook of his elbow. To Marilla’s shock, Gilbert leaned in and kissed the girl right there on their porch, a type of intimacy that she had never seen of the pair before, unsuited for a goodbye after such a short encounter as collecting some sugar. Marilla was puzzled. When they pulled away, Anne looked close to tears. He kissed her nose.

Marilla found the scene hard to bear. She stepped onto the porch herself, coughing once to announce herself. “Anne, why don’t you go up with Gilbert and borrow some flour? It seems I’m out. I’ll get started on the laundry myself.”

Anne gave a small nod, her eyes wide. “Thank you, Marilla.” The two hurried across the yard.

Marilla took a wicker basket and climbed the stairs, going to strip the beds of their sheets. She started at the end of the hall. In Anne’s bedroom, she saw that the young woman hadn’t bothered to make her bed. She began to peel off the quilt, stopping when she saw the spot of red on the bottom sheet.

_ Odd _ , Marilla thought.  _ Anne had bled just two weeks before.  _

Marilla should know: she was the one who washed the girl’s linens while she attended school. 

“Marilla?” Her brother’s voice called from the other end of the hall. “Have you moved my old boots?” 

“Of course not,” Marilla said. “Why would I do that?”

The man dropped the matter. Marilla resumed her efforts, peeling off the soiled sheet. As she placed it into the hamper, she noticed the candles scattered across the floor, on her nightstand, and on her desk. Marilla began to clear them up, moving them to the desk until she could collect them and put them back in their rightful place. As she set them down, her eyes flickered to the piece of parchment that lay at the center of the girl’s desk beside two loops of gold thread.

Marilla felt her heartbeat speed up as she slowly took in the paper’s contents. 

In one neat hand, the note began:

_ On this night, December 21st, 1903, I, Gilbert Blythe, pledge myself and all of my love to you, Anne Shirley-Cuthbert, before God and all the magical beings which dwell in your presence.  _

Beneath, in a heavier hand, the note continued.

_ And I, Anne Shirley-Cuthbert, bind myself to you, Gilbert Blythe, through body and soul before heaven. I promise to allow this glorious invisible golden string to pull me to you for as long as I live. _

On shaky feet, Marilla stepped back. In her shock, she heard something clatter to the ground. She reached down to pick up the spool of gold thread and saw then a pair of men’s boots beneath Anne’s bed. 

Slowly, Marilla rose, looking out the window and across the snow covered lawn to see Anne and Gilbert Blythe, their mouths hanging open in fear, staring back to Anne’s bedroom. Slowly, she saw her Anne step away from her beau and begin walking back to Green Gables. 

Feeling numb, Marilla took the hamper and began to descend the stairs. She heard the click of the front door opening. 

“Anne,” Marilla heard herself say. “Will you come here?”

With slow steps, Anne approached the stairs, her face the color of bone. The two women looked at one another for a long moment, trying to understand the other. 

“I suppose you love Gilbert quite a bit,” Marilla said finally.

“He’s a great miracle,” Anne answered quietly. 

“He brought you back to me,” Marilla responded.

Anne nodded. “He did.”

The older woman dropped the hamper to the floor with a great thud, her eyes welling with tears. Her daughter took hold of her elbow, guiding her to her chair in front of the kitchen fire. 

“I worried that something horrible happened to you,” Marilla confided, wiping at her face. “I thought of what happens to young girls with no family. Nothing good. Whenever I’d go to the city, I’d see those poor creatures, lurking in cold alleys, hoping a sad man would stumble on them so they could get a bit to eat. Or pull them into ballrooms to be shown off and then upstairs to a bedroom. But I suppose,” Anne handed her a handkerchief. “This means that wasn’t what happened to you.” 

The look on Marilla’s face, full of hope and gratefulness, pushed Anne to speak. “I told stories, Marilla,” Anne said, her voice cracking. “I was many different girls. I was Cordelia at 16 in New York, Elspeth at 18 in Boston. I was Sybil when I met Gilbert in Toronto last winter. I was Sybil to him for many months, posing as a relation of an old rich fellow who  _ would  _ show me off around ballrooms. I was very lucky that there was always a way for me to remain in the ballroom. That’s where I found Gilbert, or he found me.”

Marilla put a hand to the girl’s cheek. “Were you afraid then?”

“Yes,” Anne admitted. “But I could feel, deep in my soul, that someday someone would know my name.”

Reluctantly, Marilla asked: “And were you afraid last night?”

Anne shook her head. “Not even a little.”

Marilla leaned back in her seat. “That is something in the end, isn’t it?”

“Yes,” Anne agreed. “It is.” Anne bit her lip. “Are you very cross with me?” She asked.

Marilla sighed. “I should be,” she said. “But I don’t have it in me. Just tell me: will we need to push the wedding forward?”

Again, Anne shook her head. “No, that wouldn’t be necessary. I still have hopes of marrying on the first day of spring a few years from now. Unless… you don’t want me here anymore.”

“It took me so long to find you,” Marilla said. “I would be hard-pressed to let you go so soon.”

Christmas came softly. The Three Cuthberts bundled into their warmest coats, walking together to the Orchard for dinner. Anne tucked Gilbert’s gift into her pocket, her mittened hand wrapped tightly around it for safety. 

An hour later and they stood in his parlor, noses close as they extinguished the candles on the tree. Quickly she reached out for his hand and pressed the small box into it.

“What’s this?” He asked with a grin.

“Open it,” she instructed. 

He peeled open the red wrapping paper to find a velvet box. He opened this, the contents covered by a piece of paper. 

“ _ Timing is everything, _ ” he read. “ _ And you were just in time. _ ”

“Yes,” she said with a blush. He removed the note to find a gold pocket watch.

“Anne, this is too much.” He tried to hand it back.

She pushed it back towards him. “No, it’s not enough. You’ve given me so much. You’ve given me a life. Let me at least replace your broken watch.”

Reluctantly, he took it, tucking it into his vest pocket. “My present for you could never compare,” he said weakly. Regardless, he handed her another small package.

“A dictionary?” She said, tearing the package open.

“Look inside,” he said quietly.

“ _ So you can be all you were meant to be,”  _ she read. “Thank you.” 

“Come here,” he said, pulling her to a doorway. “I didn’t hang mistletoe for nothing.”

The evening passed pleasantly, and after a final chorus of  _ Auld Lang Syne _ , the Cuthberts and Gilbert stood, ready to walk back home to Green Gables. 

The world was frozen over at twilight. Everything white was grey. They stepped with care across the icy lawns, Anne and Gilbert’s arms linked as they marched on. 

It was Matthew who stopped first. “Who’s that?” He asked, gesturing out across the fields where a figure had emerged from the woods. 

Gilbert stared out into the near-darkness, a sense of dread overtaking him. “Mr. Cuthbert, you need to run to the house and get your gun.”

“What?” The three asked him in unison. 

“Please: I don’t think there’s time to explain. You need to get the gun. Anne’s in danger!”

Anne looked more carefully now at the approaching figure, slowly coming to recognize the man who was drawing nearer.

“Oh my God,” she whispered.

“Who is it?” Marilla demanded.

“Mr. Cuthbert, go now!” Gilbert yelled. At this, Matthew began to run for the house. 

“Gilbert!” Marilla yelled. “Tell me right now--”

“You need to lie,” he said, cutting her off. “You need to lie for Anne. Give her a story. Say she’s your daughter. That she’s lived with you for years. She’s only ever left the island to visit me in Toronto, do you understand? You have to act as though this man is absolutely mad.”

“Gilbert--” Marilla said again.

“He  _ is  _ mad,” Gilbert told the older woman. “And he’s come to… to take Anne, I think.”

“Gilbert.” Anne was the one to say it this time. 

He held both of her arms tightly. “Let me give you a story. It will be alright.”

Matthew was coming down the porch steps now while the man came closer than ever.

“Who are you?” Matthew demanded. “What are you doing on this property?”

The man ignored him. “Violet!” He called out instead. He ran towards them now. Gilbert moved to stand in front of Anne. Matthew raised the rifle. 

“Who are you?” Marilla demanded this time. 

“It doesn’t matter,” Harlan Carlisle said through a gruff beard. “All that matters is what the hell she’s doing here.”

“What do you mean?” Marilla asked. “This is our daughter.”

“Like hell it is!” The man responded. “Come on, Violet. You’ve been real bad, but I could forgive you if you come away nice this time.”

“Her name’s not Violet!” Gilbert hissed. “I told you that in Toronto.”

“I don’t care what she tells you her name is, boy,” the man told him. “Violet. Now.” With one arm, he pushed Gilbert aside and grabbed hold of Anne’s coat.

“Don’t touch her!” Gilbert yelled. “That’s my wife! Don’t touch her!”

Perhaps too rough, he pulled Anne back. 

“Your wife?” Carlisle questioned. “Violet, is this true? You married this boy?”

“You’re absolutely mad,” Gilbert said. “She’s not Violet: she’s Anne. She grew up next door to me.”

“No,” the man shook his head. “No. No. She’s Violet.” 

“What are you going to do with a married woman, huh?” Gilbert challenged. 

They heard the sound of Carlisle’s grinding teeth. “It doesn’t matter much what the law says,” he said finally.

“Does it matter to you that she’s pregnant with my child?” Gilbert demanded. Carlisle turned his attention away from Anne and toward the young man. 

“You didn’t,” Carlisle said. “I’ll kill you.”

“No,” Gilbert said. “You come near her again, and you’ll regret it.” 

No one was sure how it started, but Carlisle’s hands had found Anne’s body. Gilbert dove, throwing a punch which narrowly missed Anne but landed on Carlisle’s jaw. The two men fell into the snow, fists pounding into flesh.

A shot rang out.

Anne turned to see that Matthew had shot into the sky.

“Now the neighborhood knows there’s trouble,” Matthew said seriously. 

Gilbert stood. “Leave now. Or I’ll let the authorities know what you’ve done.”

With a wicked grin, the man stood and retreated back towards the woods. The four turned quickly and half-ran back to the house. Inside the parlor, Matthew and Marilla Cuthbert had many questions.

“Who was that man?”

“How did you know him?”

“Why did he call you Violet?” 

“What does he want with Anne?”

Gilbert ignored these questions, peering out through the curtains while Anne paced the room. 

“Can I please stay here tonight?” He asked Marilla and Matthew. “I’ll sleep on the couch and I can keep the gun nearby in case he comes back--”

“Gilbert,” Anne said, but he continued speaking anyway.

“I don’t think he will, but it’s an added precaution--”

“Gilbert,” Anne said again.

“He’s completely mad, so there’s no telling what he’ll do.”

“Gilbert!” Anne yelled. “Listen to me! I’m speaking to you!” All eyes turned to her. “What have you done? You’ve absolutely given us away.”

“What?” Gilbert breathed.

“‘Leave or I’ll get the authorities,’” Anne quoted him. “You said that to him last time. You can’t tell the same lie twice, he’ll know it’s a bluff.” 

“No,” Gilbert shook his head. “No, that’s not true--”

“I’m telling you: it is! I saw the look on his face.” 

“No,” he said again.

“You’re not listening to me,” Anne frowned. “I’m going to bed.” She ascended the stairs to the sound of a soft: “You can stay here tonight, Gilbert.” 

She sat up in bed, still dressed, listening closely to the sounds of the house. Shortly after midnight, she heard the sound of a third set of feet climb the stairs.

“Anne?” Gilbert’s voice said softly from the other side of her bedroom door. “I know you’re upset with me, but I just want to tell you that it’s going to be all right. You’re safe. I promise.” She did not respond. “I’m going to bed now, down on the couch. I love you.”

She felt a sob catch in her throat. The young woman wept quietly, listening to the sound of footsteps disappearing. 

Gilbert slept fitfully, dreaming of running through the night, fighting not for his life, but for one more valuable to him. 

After some hours spent like this, it was an angel that came into his view.

“Anne?” He could hear his own voice say.

“Shh,” the angel said. “You’re dreaming.” He felt soft lips graze his forehead before leaving too soon. 

He rolled over and slept a while longer. 

It was the first cry of the rooster which woke him up. He rubbed at his tired eyes and pressed a hand to his right temple where a bruise from the fight was forming. He stood up and stretched his legs, blinking a few times before he saw it: a folded piece of paper with his name written on it in heavy lettering. 

Quickly, he opened it. 

_ Dear Gilbert, _

_ It brings me little joy to write this. I do it only so I can keep you safe. I just know for certain that Carlisle will return: this world is not so merciful as to grant someone like me perfect peace. I cannot stay.  _

_ When you wake and read this, I will be gone. Off on Belle (Matthew’s mare) and then onto the milk train to Charlottetown to catch the ferry. You will not see me again.  _

_ I have left your mother’s ring on my desk upstairs. It is too precious to be kept from you, and I know that someday there will be another woman who you wish to give it to.  _

_ You have given me innumerable blessings and I will never, ever forget you. For the first time in many years, there was some degree of truth to me, and that is thanks to you. It would appear that the final truth I’ve learned from you is the hardest: forever is the sweetest con. _

  
  


_ I am not sure if these final notes will bring you peace, but I must unburden my heart and tell you a simple fact. _

_ I will never love again. _

_ Please remember that people are powerful beings and you will be alright without me.  _

_ Yours forever, evermore, _

_ Anne _

_ P.S. Please tell Matthew that I have left Belle at the inn at Bright River. Let them both know I love them and am very sorry. _

Gilbert ran up the stairs as fast as his legs could take him, throwing open the door to his fiancee’s room. The bed had not been slept in. Still, he found himself calling out her name, searching her room for any sign of her.

He did, in fact, find his mother’s ring on her desk, though the ring of gold thread she had made for herself had disappeared, along with her carpet bag. 

The Cuthberts came soon enough.

“Gilbert,” Marilla said. “Whatever is the matter?” It was then she took note of the bed. “Oh, good heavens,” she whispered. 

Gilbert handed the siblings the letter and that sat on the edge of her bed. 

“We could still catch her,” Matthew said with a cough.

“What?” Marilla said. 

“If Gilbert and I leave now, we could still catch her,” Matthew repeated.

“There’s a snowstorm!”

“It can’t matter,” Gilbert said. “It doesn’t matter.” With that he was hurrying down the stairs, donning his coat as he went along. The Cuthberts followed quickly behind. “I’ll go get my horse,” Gilbert said. “I’ll meet you back here in 15 minutes.”

With shaking hands, Gilbert saddled his own mare, not bothering to go inside and tell his family where he was going. Soon the two men were riding fast down the road to Bright River. They hadn’t ridden a mile before coming upon a mass of people who had overtaken the road and the edge of the woods. 

“What’s all this?” Gilbert called out. It was Thomas Lynde who was closest.

“The Andrews found a body over on their property this morning,” he said. “It’s that odd fellow who’s been lurking around. Froze to death, I hear.”

Matthew and Gilbert exchanged a look, pushing through the crowd and going on with renewed zeal.

The wind blew loud, howling, so Gilbert could not hear anything around him. It wasn’t until they reached the shelter of the station that Gilbert could hear the deep, whooping cough which came from Matthew Cuthbert.

The two dismounted, and Gilbert walked gingerly over to the older man. “Mr. Cuthbert,” Gilbert said. He was met by another cough. “I think you should rest here.”

Matthew began to object, but was soon bent over, trying to catch his breath. “You’ll go get her?” He finally worked up the strength to ask. “Bring her home?”

“Yes,” Gilbert said. “I will.”

He handed the reins over to Mr. Cuthbert, darting into the station.

“The next train?” Gilbert asked breathlessly. “When is it leaving for Charlottetown?”

“It’s supposed to be here in ten minutes,” the stationmaster responded. “But there have been delays all day because of the snow. But don’t worry: your little redhead got on the last one just fine.”

“When did it leave?” Gilbert asked urgently. 

“Only about forty minutes ago,” the man said. “Might be slowed down again down the line.”

Gilbert sat anxiously inside the station, willing the train to hurry. When it came time to board, he stared into the open landscape, so different from the mountains of the West which his Anne longed for.

He ran through the streets, through the snow storm, straight down to the docks where he found the ticket station to be boarded up, left vacant. It seemed so obvious now that he stood there: what ship could cross over to the mainland in this weather?

It took him a moment to realize that it was hopelessness which he was feeling. He could trace her path all the way to the ferry, then to Halifax beyond. He could not, however, find her in this city. 

And what of Anne? What did she think when she saw that the ferries were not running? Did she have any money? Warm clothes? In his helplessness, he walked further down, all the way to the shore where he became one of only two figures lingering about the boathouse. 

The wind blew rough and loud off the harbor. Still, he could not drown out the sound of a woman’s voice, pleading at the other side of the pier. 

“Please,” she seemed to say. “Please may I just wait in the sitting rooms? All you need to do is unlock the door. Only it’s so cold.”

“Don’t you have somewhere you could be?” The man’s gruff voice replied. 

“No,” she said. “I don’t.”

“And you don’t have any money?”

“Only enough for the ferry…”

“I’m sorry, Miss, but you can’t have something for nothing,” he told her harshly.

“I could tell you a story,” she offered

“I don’t want any damn story.”

“All right,” she said dejectedly. “I’ll leave now--”

“Now I didn’t say that,” the man told her, his voice growing louder as he walked back up to the doors of the waiting room. He was a large man, blocking the woman from view. “Think about it: I bet there’s something a pretty girl like you could do for me.”

“I--”

“And it’ll be warmer in there while you do it,” the man said smugly, taking a step forward to undo the lock.

He could see the woman now, perhaps only a year or two removed from being a girl, with vivid red hair and dressed in deep blue wool.

“Anne,” he mouthed. “Anne!”

Both Anne and the man looked to him then. Gilbert was already running to her.

“It’s too soon,” Anne said softly, incredulous. “Not enough time has passed since I left. You shouldn’t be here yet.”

He didn’t mind what she said so much, instead reaching out his hands to inspect her for signs of frostbite. 

“What?” He hummed.

“Gilbert, I have to go,” she told him, stepping away.

“No,” he said.

“Yes, I must,” she insisted.

“Anne, he’s dead,” Gilbert told her. “He’s dead. You don’t need to go anywhere.” He led her away from the other man, the one who would have been too happy to prey on her. She shook her head in disbelief. “Come home,” Gilbert urged. “Come home with me.”

“You’re sure?” She asked.

“Yes,” he told her. “You’re safe.”

Anne fell heavily onto a snowy bench. He sat down beside her, reaching into his pocket. He took her hand, peeling off the thin leather glove. He slid his mother’s ring back onto her hand, letting it rest beside her ring of gold thread. 

“It’s the truth,” Gilbert told her.

Together they stood, fighters and liars in a difficult world, cowboys in some other life, and they walked back to the train, ready to go home. 

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone! 
> 
> I hope this was a satisfying way to end this story. I don't have any immediate plans for a follow up, but I'm considering writing another song-fic based on something by Lana Del Rey. Feel free to leave any Shirbert-y LDR requests here. 
> 
> I hope you liked this. I'd love to hear your thoughts :)
> 
> Happy New Year!  
> S

**Author's Note:**

> Hello!
> 
> My insanity has returned, and so I've decided to start a new fic immediately on the heels of my last. Here's a historical AU inspired by Cowboy Like Me, my favorite song on evermore. I hope you're ok with the tweaks I've made to the canon! 
> 
> Let me know what you think! Enjoy!  
> -S


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